Her  Unwelcome 
Husband 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


HER  UNWELCOME 
HUSBAND 


BOOKS  BY 
W.  L.  GEORGE 

Her   Unwelcome  Husband 

Ursula  Trent 

Hail,  Columbia 

Caliban 

Woman  and  Tomorrow 

Until  the  Day  Break 

The  Strangers'  Wedding 

The  Second  Blooming 

Little  Beloved 

The  Intelligence  of  Woman 

The  Individualist 

The  City  of  Light 

A  Bed  of  Roset 

Blind  Alley 


Her  Unwelcome 


Husband 


BY 
W.  L.  GEORGE 

A uthor  of  "Ursula  Trent,"  "Caliban,"  Etc. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Copyright,  1922 
By  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 


First   Edition 


TO 
MRS.  HERBERT  GEIPEL 


938835 


CONTENTS 

\ 

CHAPTEK  PAGE 

I.  THE  SEEING  EYE 3 

II.  TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 13 

III.  MACKEREL   SKY 27 

IV.  PATRICIA    52 

V.  ENDINGS    84 

VI.  A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 100 

VII.  ALL  Is  OVER 127 

VIII.  DOPE 159 

IX.  DISCORD 178 

X.  Two   WOMEN 200 

XI.  THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 211 

XII.  INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 229 

XIII.  MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 250 

XIV.  GENTLE  DEW  . .  .275 


HER  UNWELCOME 
HUSBAND 


HER   UNWELCOME 
HUSBAND 

• 

•  • 
• 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  SEEING  EYE 

BOTH  hands  outspread  against  the  window- 
pane,  Booker  looked  out  through  the  aviary 
into  the  garden  which  now  lay  placid  and  sodden 
under  the  obstinate  spring  rain.  She  swung  to- 
ward and  away  from  the  glass  where  she  could  see, 
softened  and  dim,  the  hard  lines  of  her  countenance, 
now  more,  then  less  distinct.  "Like  somebody  else," 
thought  Booker,  and  then:  "Makes  company." 

Mrs.  Headcorn's  maid  was  rather  sad.  She 
hated  the  country,  which  sounded  so  nice  in  serials, 
but  in  fact  seemed  to  be  inhabited  solely  by  bare- 
branched  trees,  twisted  by  the  wind  into  the  likeness 
of  heads  of  hair,  as  if  distracted  women  screaming 
in  the  blast ;  the  country  meant  mud  over  the  instep ; 
it  meant  an  awful,  shopless,  busless,  movieless  world. 

Beyond  the  window-pane,  in  their  little  gallery, 
some  melancholy  cockatoos  sat  frozen  and  misavic. 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Their  flocculent  heads  and  ruffs  sank  disagreeably 
into  their  shrinking  white  and  yellow  shoulders. 
They  sat  at  equal  distances  upon  their  perches,  their 
wrinkled  eyelids  low,  their  beaks  buried  for  warmth 
into  their  breasts.  Their  mangers  were  almost 
full.  They  were  too  cold  and  wretched  to  eat. 
Booker  had  offered  them  bits  of  apple  that  morn- 
ing, thus  endeavoring  to  promote  conviviality,  but 
they  cared  for  nothing.  Booker  understood  them. 
She  gave  a  heavy  sigh.  In  the  garden,  where  pools 
had  formed  on  the  flagged  terraces,  stood  slender 
fruit  trees:  one  of  these,  apple  or  pear  (or  peach? 
How  was  one  to  know  what  these  things  were 
called?),  was  optimistically  putting  forward  a  fine 
dust  of  blossom.  Then  the  landscape  rose  slowly 
toward  a  hill,  its  contours  muffled  by  a  hanger 
thinly  clad  with  leaves. 

Booker  wondered  why  she  had  locked  herself  up 
in  Cantrel  Court,  in  wild  Farnshire,  with  five  miles 
of  dampness  between  her  and  the  mild  gaieties  of 
Basingalton.  Well,  she  was  forty-eight,  and  had 
spent  all  those  years  in  London,  except  weekends 
and  holidays  devoted  to  solo  whist  and  scandal  in 
the  housekeepers'  rooms  and  servants'  halls  of  a 
hundred  country  houses.  Recently  she  had  wanted 
to  make  a  change :  the  idea  of  the  country  had  seized 
her.  She  thought  of  red-roofed  cottages,  like  the 
advertisements  of  the  Metropolitan  Railway,  of 
lambs  with  blue  bows  round  their  necks,  and  some 
story  about  dancing  round  a  Maypole.  Well  .  .  . 

4 


THE  SEEING  EYE 

she  supposed  she'd  come  over  soppy.  Still  the  rain 
fell  grayly,  and  she  could  see  the  wind  ruffling  the 
sparse  leaves  on  the  distant  hanger. 

From  the  garden-room  behind  her  came  the  sound 
of  a  heavy  breath ;  there  was  a  moment  of  struggle 
in  the  doorway.  Languidly  Booker  turned  to  sur- 
vey without  excitement  Hilda,  the  under-housemaid, 
who,  in  large  and  widely  outstretched  pink  arms, 
held  a  circular  mat  and  a  box.  The  sight  of  Hilda 
was  repulsive  to  her.  Booker  would  have  told  Mrs. 
Headcorn  that  it  wasn't  the  business  of  her  own 
maid  to  organize  parlor  games  for  her  guests,  if  her 
mistress  had  not  conveyed  that  she  could  rely  on 
nobody  else.  Indeed,  one  needed  only  to  glance  at 
Hilda,  nineteen,  round-faced,  round-bodied,  with 
surprised  blue  eyes,  and  a  pleasant,  silly  mouth,  to 
realize  that  the  dexterity  of  London  alone  could 
dominate  the  wild.  Booker  felt  that  Hilda  was 
another  outrage  on  this  wet  day.  She  was  for  a 
moment  minded  to  turn  again  to  the  aviary  where 
the  cockatoos  had  not  moved,  beyond  which  the 
same  rain  seemed  to  fall  into  the  same  puddles. 
Hilda,  with  a  characteristically  Hilda-ish  move- 
ment, suddenly  dropped  mat  and  box,  which  made 
a  frightful  crash,  and  Booker  was  compelled  to 
abandon  her  abstractions,  to  return  to  a  brutal 
world. 

"Lucky  it  ain't  glass,"  said  Hilda. 

"You'd  have  done  it  if  it  had  been  glass,"  said 
Booker,  coldly. 

5 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Ow !  Mrs.  Booker,  you  do  go  on,"  said  Hilda, 
with  short  arms  extended  about  the  circular  target, 
giggling  at  her  superior's  wit. 

Booker  said  nothing,  but  watched  Hilda,  who 
made  vain  efforts  to  hang  it  on  a  nail  in  the  middle 
of  the  oak  door.  It  was  fascinating  to  watch  the 
red-haired  maid  totter  on  her  square  toes  and  strive 
to  hitch  the  cord  on  a  nail  too  high  for  her,  or 
take  awkward  little  jumps,  and,  limp  as  a  sack, 
fall  back  with  one  heel  against  the  box  of  darts. 
This  seemed  part  of  the  contemptible  proceedings 
of  the  day.  Booker  was  led  to  comment :  "What'U 
they  be  up  to  next?  You  might  think  they  were 
a  lot  of  kids,  the  way  they  go  on.  Fact  is,  as  soon 
as  they  get  away  from  cards,  they  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  themselves.  That's  the  worst  of  the 
upper  classes,  Hilda;  they  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  themselves." 

"That's  true,  Mrs.  Booker,"  said  Hilda. 

"You  might  think  they'd  find  plenty  to  do,  what 
with  cards,  and  dancing,  and  calling  on  each  other, 
and  telling  each  other  what  they  noticed  while  they 
called.  But  they  don't  know  how  to  pass  the  time. 
Not  really.  Take  this  lot.  You'd  have  thought 
they'd  have  had  something  better  to  do  than  play 
darts,  like  they  do  in  the  low  public  houses  in 
London.  Shows  there  ain't  so  much  difference  be- 
tween us  and  them  as  they  make  out." 

"Ow !  Mrs.  Booker,"  said  Hilda,  "you  do  know 
a  lot  of  things." 

6 


THE  SEEING  EYE 

Booker  accepted  the  tribute,  and  Hilda,  seizing 
the  mat,  took  a  desperate  run  at  the  door,  hitched 
the  cord  over  the  nail,  and  in  typical  Hilda-ish  style 
tore  the  nail  out,  so  that  she  was  precipitated  nose 
forward  on  to  the  floor.  As  she  picked  herself  up 
she  remarked :  "Drat !" 

"Don't  say  'drat,'  "  said  Booker. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Booker.  I  know  I  didn't  orte*, 
but  it  sort  of  slipped  out." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that,  Hilda.  Only  persons  of 
fashion  don't  say  'drat.'  They  say  Mamn.* J: 

"Ow!    Mrs.  Booker!    I  couldn't." 

"Well,  wait  until  you've  seen  more  of  the  world, 
Hilda,"  said  Booker  loftily.  "That  is,  if  you  stick 
to  good  houses,  of  course.  Nowadays,  a  woman 
isn't  a  real  lady  unless  she  can  have  a  word  with  a 
taxi-driver.  And  believe  me,  the  higher  the  society 
the  hotter  the  talk." 

"Mrs.  Booker!    You  don't  really  mean  it?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  it.  The  way  you  talk  one 
might  think  they  weren't  flesh  and  blood.  Why 
don't  you  keep  your  eyes  open?  Then  you'd  learn 
a  bit.  I've  been  in  service  for  thirty-three  years, 
and  I  tell  you  this :  when  anybody  has  more  than  a 
thousand  pounds  a  year  if  it's  a  he,  and  three 
hundred  a  year  if  it's  a  she,  they're  worth  watching;" 

"Watching?"  Tepeated  Hilda,  circular-eyed. 

"Yes,  if  one  wants  to  know  what's  going  on.  Take 
this  house,  for  instance.  If  I  liked  to  say  anything. 
.  .  .  But,  there,  I  never  was  one  to  make  mischief?' 
2  7 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Hilda  stared  at  Booker  for  a  moment,  under- 
standing only  by  degrees  that  there  was  something 
to  understand.  Then  at  last  she  remarked:  "I 
don't  see  what  you  mean,  Mrs.  Booker." 

"No,  you  don't  seem  to  have  kept  your  eyes  open, 
though  you  look  as  though  you  did.  What's  Mr. 
Rodbourne  doing  here?" 

"Visiting." 

"Ar!     Who's  he  visiting?     Who's  the  lady?" 

"You  don't  mean  that  the  missis  .  .  ."  gasped 
Hilda. 

"You  make  me  tired,"  replied  Booker.  "What's 
that  Mrs.  Caldecot  doing  here?  Visiting?" 

"I  suppose  she  is,"  said  Hilda,  bewildered. 

"Well,  there  you  are,"  said  Booker,  conclusively. 
"Fog  lifted  yet?" 

"What  fog?"  asked  Hilda,  looking  toward  the 
garden. 

"You'll  never  be  fit  for  service  except  in  the 
suburbs,"  said  Booker.  "She's  a  fine  woman,  Mrs. 
Caldecot.  Getting  a  bit  long  in  the  tooth  perhaps, 
but  still  there's  many  a  good  tune  played  on  an  old 
fiddle,  they  say.  I  say  Mr.  Rodbourne's  too  young 
for  her." 

"Do  you  mean  they're  going  to  get  married?" 
said  Hilda. 

"Not  likely.  In  fashionable  society  marriage  is 
what  they  call  a  'peas-alley.'  Besides,  she's  mar- 
ried. It  doesn't  worry  her,  her  husband  being  on 
long  leave,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  But  of  course 


THE  SEEING  EYE 

she  feels  dull.  So  did  Mr.  Rodbourne  feel  dull  till 
she  came  along." 

"But  how  did  you  find  out,  Mrs.  Booker?" 

"Find  out?"  said  Booker,  contemptuously.  "Of 
course,  I  didn't  find  out.  In  fashionable  society 
nothing's  found  out;  it's  only  known.  But  when 
a  lady  and  a  gentleman  have  just  been  staying 
with  some  friends  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  they're 
both  staying  here  with  Mrs.  Headcorn,  and  Mrs. 
Frederick  heard  them  say  at  dinner  that  they'd  be 
meeting  again  next  week  at  a  third  lot,  well,  you 
put  two  and  two  together.  In  fashionable  society, 
when  you  put  two  and  two  together  it  makes  one. 
Don't  you  take  on,  Hilda;  they're  only  human. 
They're  just  like  you  and  me,  only  we've  got  to  pre- 
tend a  bit,  because  we've  got  a  different  set  of 
fashions.  I  found  out  what  they  were  like  when  I 
got  my  divorce." 

"You  been  divorced,  Mrs.  Booker?"  whispered 
Hilda,  as  the  opening  chapter  of  a  serial  seemed 
to  open  before  her. 

"Yes.  A  lady  I  was  with  for  five  years  said  she 
had  reason  to  be  grateful  to  me,  never  mind  why, 
and  asked  me  what  I'd  like  her  to  do  for  me.  So 
I  said  I'd  have  a  divorce.  It  was  very  exciting  and 
quite  easy,  though  I  must  say  my  husband  helped 
me  a  lot.  And  the  judge  said  lovely  things  about 
the  outraged  feelings  of  womanhood.  But  I  only 
did  it  once,  being,  as  you  might  say,  only  on  the 

edge  of  the  smart  set." 

9 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Do  you  meam  that  Mrs.  Caldecot  is  going  to 
have  a  divorce?"  said  Hilda,  whose  mind  worked 
slowly. 

"She  get  a  divorce!"  said  Booker,  scornfully. 
"The  boot  would  be  on  the  other  leg,  though  I 
expect  Mr.  Caldecot*s  been  busy  too  all  the  years 
he's  been  away.  Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  any  good 
her  getting  a  divorce.  It's  too  late." 

"What's  too  late,  Mrs.  Booker?" 

"She  couldn't  get  Mr.  Rodbourne  if  she  was 
divorced  ten  times  over.  Not  now.  Haven't  you 
seen  him  with  Miss  Neale?" 

"Miss  Patricia?" 

"Not  Miss  Patricia,  Hilda.  One  doesn't  use  a 
young  lady's  Christian  name  if  the  young  lady  is 
out,  unless  there  are  two  sisters  and  she's  the 
joungest.  Miss  Neale.  He's  sweet  on  her.  Of 
course,  he  doesn't  know  it  yet ;  men  never  do  until 
it's  too  late.  But  he  is.  Mrs.  Frederick  says  you 
only  have  to  notice  the  way  he  asks  her  to  have 
some  salted  almonds." 

"Lor5!"  said  Hilda.  "What  will  Mrs.  Caldecot 
say  when  she  finds  out?" 

"Oh,  Hilda,  you  make  me  tired.  Don't  you  think 
she  knows  ?  If  she  were  married  to  him  she  wouldn't 
know.  Maybe  it  isn't  true  that  love  is  blind,  but 
marriage  is.  Only  Mrs.  Caldecot  isn't  married  to 
him,  and  when  a  woman  isn't  married  to  a  man  she 
keeps  her  eye  on  him.  Course  she  won't  let  on, 

but  I  say  to  you  that  when  there's  an  affair  de 

10 


THE  SEEING  EYE 

cure  going  on,  the  one  who's  out  of  it  knows  it 
long  before  those  that's  in  it." 

"Well,  I  never,"  said  Hilda.  Then,  with  a  sigh, 
she  decided  to  adjourn  the  serial,  and  remarked: 
"How  am  I  going  to  put  this  lumping  mat  up  now 
the  nail's  out?  Suppose  I  must  go  round  to  the 
shed  and  find  a  hammer." 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you,**  said  Booker.  She 
picked  up  the  nail,  and  looked  about  the  garden- 
room,  where  little  tables  were  littered  with  carved 
brass  brought  back  from  India  by  the  late  Mr. 
Headcorn.  Seizing  a  pot,  she  hammered  in  the  nail 
with  three  or  four  strokes.  Just  as  the  nail  went  in, 
the  drawing-room  opened  to  admit  Mrs.  Head- 
corn  who,  for  a  moment,  was  made  speechless  by 
her  horror  and  her  natural  volume. 

"Booker !"  cried  Mrs.  Headcorn  at  last.  "What 
are  you  doing?" 

"Hammering  in  a  nail,  Ma'am." 

"Don't  you  know  that  that  pot  was  brought  back 
from  Bangalore  by  Mr.  Headcorn?" 

"Yes,  Ma'am.  But  I  haven't  done  it  any  harm. 
You  see,  Ma'am,  this  is  a  brass-headed  nail.  Brass 
can't  make  a  dent  on  brass,  Ma'am." 

By  that  time  Hilda  had  hung  up  the  mat,  and 
Booker  followed  her  out.  Mrs.  Headcorn  said  noth- 
ing. Somehow  Booker  always  had  the  best  of  it. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Headcorn  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  smoothing  the  offended  pot,  while 
Chang  and  Suki,  the  Pekingese,  who  had  followed 

11 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

her  in,  watched  it  anxiously,  wondering  if  it  were 
not  a  new  kind  of  ball.  At  last  Mrs.  Headcorn  put 
it  down  again,  and  circulated  about  the  garden- 
room,  picking  up  cushions  from  chairs  to  put  them 
down  again,  disordering  the  brass  ash  trays,  and 
inspecting  one  by  one  scratches  on  articles  of  fur- 
niture, seeking  cracks  in  mugs  and  jugs,  and  gen- 
erally fussing.  The  garden-room  was  crowded  with 
palms  and  india-rubber  trees.  She  liked  the  smooth- 
ness of  the  leaves  she  handled,  and  she  wandered  into 
a  corner  to  prick  herself  on  the  cactus,  so  as  to 
assure  herself  that  it  was  still  sharp.  FOT  Mrs. 
Headcorn  was  a  house  maniac;  she  had  inherited 
this  disease  from  her  husband,  who  had  built  Cantrel 
Court  himself,  and  had  designed  the  garden-room 
and  aviary  in  such  a  way  as  to  deprive  the  dining- 
room  and  drawing-room  of  all  air  and  nearly  all 
light.  Then,  opening  the  aviary  door,  upon  which 
swung  the  mat,  she  went  to  see  the  cockatoos.  But, 
that  morning,  not  even  the  unpleasant  neighbor- 
hood of  Chang  and  Suki  stirred  the  birds  into 
activity. 


12 


CHAPTER  II 

TEIAL  BY  MIEEOE 

CLAIRE  CALDECOT  lay  in  her  bath,  relaxed 
and  rather  drowsy.  The  hot  water  that  en- 
veloped her  to  the  chin  seemed  to  armor  her  against 
a  world  excluded.  She  liked  to  lie  motionless  and  to 
look  down  upon  the  soapy  water  that  had  the  trans- 
lucence  of  some  dead  greenish  stone.  She  felt  com- 
fortable and  secure.  Then  she  played  a  little  game, 
raising  her  feet  to  the  surface,  so  that  her  toes 
might  be  chilled  and  then  that  she  might  enjoy  the 
renewed  warmth  of  their  immersion.  She  had  pretty 
feet,  she  thought,  and  held  one  up.  Indeed,  straight 
and  slim,  with  toes  well  detached  one  from  the  other, 
untwisted,  unswollen,  with  small  curved  nails  that 
now  shone  as  if  the  water  had  enameled  them. 
She  liked  the  very  fine  angle  and  the  exaggerated 
arch  of  the  sharp-cut  instep.  No  flesh  there,  but 
bone  and  sinew.  There  was  about  her  foot  an 
air  of  disdain;  the  metacarpal  angle  was  almost 
insolent. 

She  did  not  know  why,  but  she  could  not  help 
reflecting  that  it  was  queer  that,  as  time  went  on, 

the  smooth  skin  would  lose  that  pallid,  pinkish  glow, 

13 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

grow  dry,  a  little  harsh,  that  this  resile  of  blue 
veins  would  rise  up  from  the  mat  ivoriness  it  now 
ran  through,  making  twisted  cords  and  purpled 
knots.  Then  one  day  the  thin  foot  would  find  it  an 
effort  to  test  twisting  the  energy  of  the  ankle.  It 
would  move  very  little,  then  not  move  at  all.  For  a 
time  it  would  lie  upon  a  white  sheet  and  be  marked 
only  by  the  faint  eminence  it  made  under  the  sheet 
that  covered  it.  And  for  the  sake  of  propriety, 
people  would  equalize  its  lie  with  that  of  its  fellow. 
Then  it  would  be  in  the  dark  and  time  would  pass. 
It  would  swell  and  burgeon  with  its  own  gases,  the 
livid  green  skin  would  be  sown  with  rifts.  Her  feet 
would  assume  a  new  shape,  with  the  bone  more 
evident,  and  twist  in  an  unconscious  agony.  As 
time  went  on,  the  swollen  flesh  would  dry ;  scrap  by 
scrap,  rosy  skin,  firm  muscle  which  had  trodden 
meadows  and  stepped  dance  would  fall  away  into 
fine  dust ;  one  by  one,  as  tendons  too,  ashes  to  ashes 
went,  the  bones  would  fall,  be  scattered,  and  them- 
selves whiten  and  dry,  and  to  dust  go.  There  would 
the  dust  lie  when  she  was  forgotten,  not  even  a 
phalanx  by  which  to  rebuild  her  in  imagination.  She 
gave  a  little  laugh  and  thought ,  "I  wonder  what'll 
have  become  of  my  gold  shoes  with  the  red  heels." 
And  she  felt  a  little  thrill  of  voluptuous  delight 
before  the  picture  of  this  last  and  immense  adven- 
ture, her  own  annihilation. 

At  last,  freeing  herself  from  this  sense  of  weari- 
ness and  comfort,  Mrs.  Caldecot  stepped  out  of 

14 


TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 

her  bath  and  wrapped  herself  in  the  hot  towel  which 
hung  over  the  radiator.  It  was  nice,  the  crisp, 
sandy  feeling  of  the  sharp  towel.  Little  glows 
overspread  her  here  and  there,  about  shoulder  blade 
or  knee,  as  she  wrapped  herself  in  the  dryness.  For 
a  moment,  still  swathed  in  the  bath  towel,  she  ex- 
amined herself  in  the  tall  looking-glass  which  ran 
up  the  wall.  She  smiled  at  her  reflection.  She 
always  thought  herself  funny  with  her  head  tied  up 
in  a  towel,  showing  no  hair,  so  white  and  limbs  con- 
cealed. She  looked  like  a  rabbit  about  to  be  roasted. 
She  liked  to  see  herself  as  she  then  was,  her  face 
flushed,  her  nose  shining  in  the  most  unfortunate 
way,  a  wisp  of  hair  escaped  and  sodden.  For  all 
that  crudity  would  soon  be  hidden,  and  she  alone 
knew  how  she  looked  just  then.  She  made  with  her- 
self a  conspiracy  against  the  world  which  her  toilet 
table  deceived.  Then,  still  smiling  and  half-content, 
she  went  into  her  bedroom  to  exchange  the  towels 
for  a  wadded  dressing-gown  of  electric  blue  Chinese 
silk,  decorated  on  the  back  in  silver  with  a  picture 
of  a  complete  tea  party,  given  to  his  friends  by  a 
mandarin.  A  shiver  warned  her  against  the  cool 
spring  air,  but  all  the  same,  after  a  moment,  being 
a  very  English  woman  and  sure  that  it  was  good 
for  her  to  do  something  she  did  not  quite  want  to  do, 
she  bravely  flung  off  the  garment  to  do  her  exercises. 
For  ten  minutes  she  subj  ected  herself  to  the  infinite 
weariness  of  those  twists,  and  turns,  and  swings. 

As  she  whirled  about,  the  flowered  pattern  on  the 

15 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

walls  figured  a  bewildering  little  film.  "Seventeen, 
eighteen,  nineteen.  Oh,  what  a  bore!"  She  liked 
bending  back.  It  made  a  nice  little  crunch  between 
the  shoulders.  But,  oh,  the  weariness  of  lifting 
knees  only  to  put  them  down  again !  She  cheated 
when  the  second  time  came  round.  When  it  was 
done,  Mrs.  Caldecot  felt  righteous ;  she  concluded 
that  she  deserved  to  put  on  the  dressing-gown  again, 
that  the  glow  was  a  proper  reward,  and  that  now  at 
last  might  she  sit  down  at  her  toilet  table  and  light 
her  second  cigarette.  As  she  puffed  she  thought 
with  melancholy  that  though  the  second  cigarette 
was  good,  it  was  not  quite  so  potent  as  the  one  had 
with  the  early  cup  of  tea,  when  one  was  not  quite 
awake,  and  the  tiny  whiff  of  nicotine  enabled  one  to 
put  off,  just  for  another  moment,  the  compulsion  of 
wakefulness.  "I  suppose,"  she  thought,  "that  it's 
like  everything,  and  that  the  second  cigarette  is 
never  quite  so  good  as  the  first."  Then  she  chid 
herself :  Some  things  were  quite  as  good  the  second 
time  as  the  first.  They  endured  forever*  But  did 
they?  And  suddenly,  as  if  this  disturbed  her  more 
than  she  cared  to  own,  as  if  Mrs.  Caldecot  were 
not  in  the  mood  to  consider  the  mutability  of  pleas- 
ures, she  put  the  cigarette  down  and  seized  her  mani- 
cure scissors,  as  if  to  force  herself,  first  seeking  some 
tiny  tongue  of  cuticle  to  clip,  equalizing  a  coral 
finger-nail,  or  with  an  ivory  stub  developing  a  half- 
moon,  and  bringing  out  with  polish  the  familiar 

glows  of  her  fingers.    For  a  long  time  she  massaged 

16 


TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 

the  skin  of  her  face  and  neck,  lightly  rubbing  in 
cold  cream.  She  did  not  know  why,  but  she  devel- 
oped a  little  obstinacy  of  operation  on  either  side 
of  her  mouth.  Then,  with  half-conscious  hurry,  she 
busily  dabbed  a  powder  puff  over  the  creamy  sur- 
face, from  chin  to  roots  of  hair,  as  if  she  veiled 
herself.  i 

She  was  very  beautiful  at  that  moment.  Her 
released,  almost  black  hair  was  thrown  away,  thick 
and  glossy,  from  her  exaggeratedly  broad,  low  brow. 
Wholly  black  and  nearly  level  brows  hung  over  two 
slate-gray  eyes,  which  lay  far  apart  about  the 
slightly  arched  nose  with  the  rather  broad,  dis- 
dainful nostrils.  She  liked  her  fastidious  nose, 
and  she  enjoyed  the  repetition  of  its  effect  in  the 
mouth,  where  the  upper  lip  was  thick  and  greedy, 
the  lower  lip  rather  thin  and  ready  to  tremble, 
except  when  controlled  by  the  even  and  very  sharp 
teeth.  She  had  a  certain  splendor  as  she  so  lay 
back,  the  screaming  blue  and  silver  of  the  dressing- 
gown  fallen  from  the  massive  contour  of  her 
shoulders.  For  a  moment  she  so  considered  her- 
self, hands  outstretched  upon  the  glass  cover  of  the 
dressing  table,  large,  slender  hands  with  well-parted 
fingers.  So  she  stayed  for  some  time,  and  did  not 
know  quite  what  she  thought,  except  that  a  certain 
sadness  and  anxiety  translated  itself  into  this 
thought:  I'd  better  hurry  up  and  dress.  So  a 
little  bored,  she  brushed  her  hair  for  a  while,  enjoy- 
ing at  intervals  the  flashes  which  here  and  there 

17 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

the  electric  light  brought  out.  Rather  wearily,  she 
put  it  up,  to  feel  relief  when  she  had  finished  the  task 
so  often  accomplished.  And  she  had  a  satisfaction 
almost  of  sensuality  when,  for  a  moment,  she  hesi- 
tated before  the  drawer  where  she  might  choose  the 
underclothes  of  the  day.  Claire  Caldecot  loved  un- 
derclothes. She  practically  collected  them.  There 
were  chemises  of  crepe  de  Chine,  hardly  bluer  than 
the  morning  sky  in  springtime ;  nightgowns  of  inno- 
cent lawn,  bearing  tiny  yokes  of  Mechlin  lace; 
brassieres  like  cobwebs  of  rose  silk ;  and,  at  the  side, 
a  sumptuous,  disordered  heap  of  garments  of  ninon, 
shell  pink  or  straw  yellow,  of  rather  heavy  cham- 
pagne silk,  or  sea-green  milanese.  Here  and  there  a 
scarlet  shoulder  strap,  or  a  ribbon  of  black  and 
gold,  brought  out  the  delicacy  of  the  colors.  Folded 
upon  the  top  lay  a  short  petticoat  of  very  old 
amber  silk,  heavily  flowered  in  formal  garlands  of 
purple,  crimson,  and  emerald  flowers. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  remained  for  a  moment  stooping 
over  the  drawer  from  which  rose  the  suave,  discreet 
emanation  of  cleanliness  that  knows  research,  the 
scent  of  the  delicate  fabrics  themselves,  with  which 
mingled  the  memory  of  a  more  acrid  perfume.  Of  a 
love  perfume  that  would  not  die.  When  at  last  she 
had  chosen,  when  she  had  concealed  the  sweet  in- 
timacy of  these  impalpables  under  the  severe  sweater 
which  the  country  dictates,  the  equally  conventional 
tweed  skirt  that  falls  in  lines  stiff  as  cardboard, 
put  down  with  a  sigh  the  rainbow  array  of  her  silk 

18 


TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 

stockings,  and  chosen  sepia  ribbed  cashmere,  to  go 
with  her  brown  brogues,  and  was  ready,  she  did  not 
at  once  go  downstairs.  She  went  to  the  window  to 
look  out  toward  the  hanger.  She  could  hardly  see 
it  now,  for  the  rain  was  slowly  thickening  its  smoky 
veil.  She  listened  to  the  slight  noises  of  the  house, 
the  trickle  of  water  from  a  gutter,  the  distant  bark 
of  a  dog;  now  and  then,  from  the  servants'  quar- 
ters, came  the  discord  of  a  laugh.  She  stood  so,  with 
a  hand  against  the  window  frame,  and,  as  the  sec- 
onds passed,  her  eyes  ceased  to  see  the  prospect 
before  her.  At  that  moment  she  was  in  a  disturbed 
mood,  and  she  did  not  quite  know  what  disturbed 
her.  First  she  thought  of  Patricia  Neale. 

Patricia  was  a  nice  girl,  a  pretty  girl.  Some- 
thing innocent  and  undeliberate  about  her.  As 
Mrs.  Caldecot  considered  the  bright  exuberance  of 
the  girl,  she  had  a  moment  of  envy.  Patricia  Neale 
at  twenty,  or  twenty-one  perhaps,  seemed  to  have 
come  out  of  the  Everywhere  into  Here  with  simple 
gusto.  She  liked  games ;  she  enjoyed  parties ;  she 
loved  to  talk;  she  didn't  mind  listening.  Every- 
thing was  lovely,  everything  new.  Everything  ex- 
citing and  everybody  charming.  Mrs.  Caldecot 
smiled  rather  bitterly  as  she  remembered  that  the 
night  before  the  girl  had  won  her  with  unintentional 
flattery  by  getting  her  to  explain  the  exact  guard 
in  a  nonheaded  suit  for  a  retorting  no-trump  dec- 
laration. She  had  said  so  prettily :  "It  does  seem 
so  silly  to  me,  but  it  looks  as  if  I  had  such  a  lot  of 

19 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

things  to  learn."  Which  conveyed  the  unconscious 
flattery  that  Mrs.  Caldecot  had  nothing  to  learn, 
and  that  Patricia  did  not  condole  with  her  because 
she  was  experienced  and  presumably  aged ;  that  Pa- 
tricia really  envied  and  admired  this  beautiful  woman 
who  knew  not  only  the  secrets  of  bridge,  but  the 
deeper  secrets  of  ruling  hair  in  a  high  wind,  and 
of  touching  ink,  yet  not  being  denied.  Mrs.  Caldecot 
felt  that  one  could  not  help  liking  Patricia.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  who  appreciate  beauty  in 
other  women:  she  was  herself  beautiful  enough  for 
that.  So  she  liked  the  mental  picture  she  now 
made  of  Patricia,  her  small,  round,  curly  head,  and 
the  undeveloped  grace  of  her  drooping  shoulders 
and  narrow  flanks.  One  became  friendly  with  her 
easily,  for  she  gave  herself,  and  now,  after  a  week 
at  Cantrel  Court,  Mrs.  Caldecot  felt  that  she  knew 
the  little  that  was  to  be  discovered  in  Patricia's 
half-sketched  dreams  and  untouched  emotions.  It 
was  not  wonderful  that  Bob  should  like  her  too, 
though  Mrs.  Caldecot  could  not  help  wishing  that 
Bob  had  not  greeted  the  girl  like  an  old  friend.  It 
was  true  that  he  had  met  her  before,  at  some  party 
in  London,  when  she  was  up  from  Devonshire,  but, 
all  the  same,  he  seemed  pleased  in  his  surprise,  and 
Mrs.  Caldecot  wished  that  he  had  been  .  .  .  sur- 
prised in  his  pleasure.  Oh,  she  had  nothing  against 
Bob.  He'd  been  as  he  always  was,  charming,  com- 
panionable, and  so  reassuring.  No,  it  wasn't  that 

he'd  played  fives  with  the  girl  when  she  thought  that 

20 


TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 

he  disliked  the  elementary  and  overheating  game. 
She  hated  games  herself,  and  Bob  had  to  get 
his  exercise  somehow.  Still  ...  it  was  just  .  .  . 
well,  still.  And  the  party  had  got  scattered  the 
other  day,  when  they  went  to  Basingalton  to  see  the 
Elizabethan  houses.  The  two  hadn't  gone  out  of 
sight,  but  they'd  been,  in  a  way,  apart.  At  one 
moment,  in  the  High  Street,  they'd  been  fifty  paces 
behind,  and  a  peculiarly  delicate  feminine  instinct 
told  Mrs.  Caldecot  that  when  people  are  fifty  paces 
behind  they  are  far  enough  away  to  confide,  with- 
out it  being  possible  to  say  that  they  are  sharing  a 
secret.  If  people  were  a  mile  off,  they  might  main- 
tain innocence ;  the  necessity  of  keeping  out  of  ear- 
shot altered  the  relationship. 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  she  said  aloud  to  herself.  "If 
you  go  on  like  this  you'll  become  a  jealous  woman." 
She  saw  herself  with  affright  a  woman  reaching 
middle  age  and  holding  on  by  activity  to  a  bliss 
which  she  had  gained  by  passivity,  become  grasping 
where  she  had  been  seductive,  suspicious  where  she 
had  been  trusting,  and  defeated  where  she  had  been 
predominant.  What  reason  had  she  to  suspect  Bob? 
Would  it  not  have  been  much  more  suspicious  if  he 
had  ostentatiously  avoided  Patricia  ?  Would  not  a 
guilty  man  have  made  some  clumsy  attempt  at  con- 
cealment by  disparaging  the  girl?  Called  her  raw, 
country-bred,  all  the  things  she  was?  and  hiding 
within  the  keep  of  his  mind  the  impression  made  by 

her  evident  charm.    At  least  Bob  would  have  done 

21 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

that,  being  such  a  fool  with  women,  and  a  darling 
and  thinking  one  could  take  them  in.  Oh,  it  was 
awful  to  love  a  man  like  this.  She  had  a  memory  of 
Rodbourne  the  day  before.  He  was  driving  the 
car  and  wore  no  goggles,  she  suspected  out  of  co- 
quetry. The  elegance  of  his  tall  body  was  not  con- 
cealed, for  again  out  of  coquetry  he  wore  leather 
and  not  furs.  He  looked  exactly  like  a  chauffeur, 
the  sort  of  chauffeur  whom  Aphrodite  would  engage, 
with  his  straight  features,  his  dark-lashed  blue  eyes, 
and  the  little  mustache  of  red-gold  on  his  ruddy 
face.  Elegant,  but  not  effeminate ;  the  sharp,  bony 
point  of  his  chin  guarded  him  against  that.  Would 
it  be  so  wonderful,  Mrs.  Caldecot  thought,  if  Patri- 
cia were  to  fall  in  love  with  this  man  ?  Not  only  his 
good  looks,  but  the  steady,  intelligent  speech,  the 
young  parliamentary  reputation,  the  air  of  strength 
and  determination?  And  would  it  be  so  wonderful 
if  this  man  of  thirty-eight,  still  young,  but  aware  of 
age,  were  tempted  by  the  shy  challenge  of  a  youth- 
ful passion,  by  the  opportunity  to  initiate,  to  ex- 
change his  relationship  with  her,  where  he  was  an 
equal,  where  he  was  perhaps  a  child,  for  one  where 
he  would  be  a  god?  To  be  a  wonder  instead  of 
being  a  delight,  what  a  temptation  for  the  vain 
creature  that  is  man! 

With  an  effort  Mrs.  Caldecot  threw  aside  these 
ideas  and  told  herself  that  time  would  show,  hoping 
as  she  formulated  the  thought  that  time  would  show 

nothing.     She  was  disquieted  because  for  some  un- 

22 


TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 

known  reason  Bob  had  not  that  morning  made  upon 
the  wall  the  usual  signal  to  announce  that  when  no 
one  was  about  he  would  take  the  opportunity  to  pay 
an  early  call.  She  missed  that.  She  loved  those 
secret  meetings  in  the  early  morning,  when  she  had 
had  breakfast,  had  done  her  hair  and  powdered,  and 
for  a  while  was  placid  and  idle.  Then  Bob  would 
come  in,  rather  cautious,  though  assured,  kiss  her, 
almost  conjugally  sit  down,  tell  her  the  contents  of 
some  of  his  letters.  The  newspaper  would  be  lying 
open,  and  she  would  have  read  it  by  then,  but  Bob 
would  all  the  same  tell  her  what  there  was  in  it,  and 
his  male  intelligence  would  make  public  affairs  a 
little  clearer  to  her  mind.  He  would  sit  there  and 
enjoy  the  appreciation  in  her  eyes,  in  those  eyes 
which  so  punctually,  and  almost  truthfully,  said : 
"Bob,  how  clever  you  are !" 

Why  didn't  he  come?  Didn't  he  want  to? 
Absurd!  If  he  didn't  want  to  he'd  have  come  all 
the  more,  because  he'd  think  he  ought  to,  men  being 
so  beastly  conventional.  "Perhaps,"  thought  Mrs. 
Caldecot,  as  she  tortured  a  stiff  pleat  on  her  skirt, 
"perhaps  the  servants  were  about."  But  why  didn't 
he  at  least  tap?  Mrs.  Caldecot  stood  for  a  moment 
staring  at  the  patterned  wall.  Nothing.  She 
couldn't  stay  there  all  the  morning,  waiting.  Prob- 
ably he'd  gone  downstairs.  Well,  she'd  better  go 
down  too.  For  a  moment  she  looked  about  the 
room,  uncertain  until  her  eyes  met  their  curiously 
strained  reflection  in  the  mirror.  They  stood  star- 
3  23 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

ing  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  the  woman  and  her 
ghost,  as  if  the  woman  were  afraid  to  draw  near, 
yet  could  not  get  away.  Then,  step  by  step,  she 
went  closer  to  the  mirror,  and  closer,  until  her 
hands  rested  upon  the  dressing  table.  They  so 
stood,  their  gaze  unchanged,  the  one  pitiless,  the 
other  imploring. 

L  "Yes,"  thought  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "I'm  all  right." 
But  still  she  stared  into  the  mirror.  The  skin 
looked  to-day  unpleasantly  drawn  about  the  orbits. 
In  spite  of  powder,  it  shone  there,  as  if  a  little  of 
the  flesh  had  fallen  away.  And  the  cheeks  too. 
She  always  had  fine,  hard  cheeks  that  Bob  liked  to 
pinch.  Why  did  they  look  so  outlined  to-day? 
They  weren't  swollen.  No,  it  wasn't  that.  It  was 
that  .  .  .  what  was  that  below  the  cheeks  ?  It  had 
looked  like  a  shadow  once,  and  now  it  affirmed  itself. 
Almost  imperceptibly,  if  she  stood  sideways,  the 
cheek  hung.  And  those  other  shadows,  on  either 
side  of  the  mouth.  ...  In  a  moment  of  revolt  Mrs. 
Caldecot  thought:  "I'm  not  wrinkled."  No,  it 
wasn't  wrinkles,  but  those  shadows  which  sur- 
rounded the  mouth  seemed  to  have  deepened  lately. 
They  were  prolonging  the  lips  and  produced  the 
illusion  that  the  corners  were  being  drawn  down. 
About  the  j  aw,  too,  that  had  been  clean  as  if  cut  in 
marble,  there  was  a  sort  of  uncertainty  of  contour. 
A  thickening,  a  slackening  of  flesh,  beginning  gently 
by  the  ear,  and  slowly  swelling  into  a  fullness  at  the 

throat,  which  now  lacked  hardness  of  line,  that  re- 

24 


TRIAL  BY  MIRROR 

sisted  ill  the  inquisitorial  finger  with  which  she  tested 
its  flaccidity.  Mrs.  Caldecot  knew  all  this,  and  did 
not  know  it.  The  face  which  had  stared  at  her  every' 
day,  she  knew  it  too  well  to  mark  its  change,  but' 
she  was  conscious  of  it  all  the  same,  conscious 
enough  to  know  that  if  it  had  not  changed,  still 
change  was  upon  it.  She  had  a  sudden  vision  of 
herself,  dim-eyed,  with  rare  eyelashes,  retracted 
lips,  a  parched  and  mottled  skin,  upon  which  heavy 
cream  would  with  difficulty  hold  reluctant  floury 
patches,  with  pendulous  chin  and  a  rolling  neck, 
and  all  this  which  had  been  lovely  and  imperious 
draped  with  the  dry  and  quivering  rags  of  dead  skin 
and  lax  flesh. 

She  turned  away  hurriedly  from  the  awful  trial 
where  she,  prisoner  in  the  dock,  and  for  life,  had  to 
consent  to  her  own  arrest,  against  herself  bear  wit- 
ness, upon  herself  pass  sentence.  She  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  her  trembling  hands  raised  as  if 
she  sought  some  rescue,  some  reassurance.  She 
couldn't  stay  like  this,  self-convicted  and  alone;  it 
couldn't  be  true.  Oh,  it  wasn't  true !  But  how  was 
she  to  know  ?  How  could  she  believe  in  her  eternal 
youth,  in  her  untouched  beauty,  unless  she  were 
again  assured  of  it?  "A  woman,"  she  thought,  "is 
not  beautiful  until  a  man  tells  her  that  she  is."  Still 
she  was  staring  at  the  flowered  wall.  Still  no 
sound.  Perhaps  he  was  asleep.  She  took  a  step 
forward,  then  hesitated.  Never  had  it  been  she 

who  tapped  upon  the  wall.     Never  had  she  done 

25 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

more  than  turn  a  desirous  ear  toward  the  melody. 
Sometimes  she  had  amused  herself  by  pretending  not 
to  hear,  and  so  exacted  tribute  by  making  him 
persist.  No,  she  couldn't  tap.  That  would  be 
confession.  But  she  was  so  sad,  so  alone. 

"I  must  do  it,"  she  thought.  She  was  so  fright- 
ened. 

At  last,  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  abdication,  Mrs. 
Caldecot  went  to  the  wall,  and  with  trembling  fingers 
tapped  out  the  accustomed  signal,  one  bar  of  the 
Greek  dance  in  "Alceste."  She  tapped  it  to  the 
end,  uncertainly,  and  every  tap  hurt  something  in 
her;  it  was  as  if  she  nailed  a  living  creature  upon 
that  wall.  When  she  had  finished  she  waited  for  a 
moment.  There  was  no  reply.  With  new  humility 
she  said  to  herself,  "Perhaps  I  didn't  tap  loud 
enough."  So  now  once  more,  and  resolutely,  she 
tapped  out  the  measure.  And  when  that  was  done, 
now  without  hesitation,  she  tapped  again,  until  her 
finger  nails  ached,  and  again,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  a 
twinkling  rose  in  the  pattern.  And  again  the  eter- 
nal tripping  measure,  until  at  last  she  found  tears 
rush  from  her  eyes,  and  she  was  biting  her  lips  to 
keep  down  her  screams,  as  now  no  longer  she  tapped, 
but  beat  at  the  wall,  with  both  fists  raised  above  her 
head,  striking  at  that  neutral  surface  to  force  it  to 
yield  a  reply,  while  long  convulsive  shudders  went 
through  the  whole  of  her  body.  She  struck  on, 
animated  now  only  to  effort,  as  if  become  a  disem- 
bodied force  of  desire  and  despair. 

26 


CHAPTER  III 

MACKEREL  SKY 

STANDING  in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing- 
room,  Mrs.  Caldecot  for  a  moment  watched 
Mrs.  Headcorn  with  a  certain  amusement.  Her 
buxom  hostess  was  still  engaged  in  her  morning  tour 
of  the  furniture ;  this  she  looked  upon  as  an  essen- 
tial part  of  housekeeping.  At  that  moment,  she 
stood  before  the  Sheraton  cabinet,  forefinger  up- 
raised upon  a  panel.  She  did  not  move,  and  Mrs. 
Caldecot  had  to  bite  her  lip  so  as  not  to  laugh.  She 
knew  exactly  what  was  occupying  the  mind  of  her 
old  friend.  May  Headcorn,  inflamed  with  the  spirit 
of  a  grandmother  who  had  no  servant  troubles, 
wanted  on  the  panel  to  trace  the  word  "dust."  And 
she  was  telling  herself:  "After  all,  if  there's  dust 
they  ought  to  know  it.  I'm  not  going  to  be  bullied 
by  my  servants.  If  only  it  were  Hilda,  I'd  do  it." 
The  forefinger  trembled  and  made  a  dab  at  the 
panel.  The  train  of  thought  was  resumed :  "Alice 
is  such  a  disagreeable  girl.  And  I'm  sure  Booker 
makes  all  the  trouble  she  can."  Then,  happening 
to  turn  her  head,  Mrs.  Headcorn  perceived  Mrs. 

Caldecot  in  the  doorway,  and  adopted  her  arrival 

27 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

'as  a  pretext,  enabling  her  to  forget  a  duty  that 
might  have  had  unpleasant  domestic  results. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  "how  lovely  you  look." 

"Do  I?"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  a  little  weakly. 
"How  nice  of  you  to  say  so.  Women  don't  say 
those  things  as  a  rule,  May." 

"Except  fat  old  women  like  me,"  said  Mrs.  Head- 
corn. 

"Oh,  you  aren't  old." 

"But  I'm  fat.  Ah!  Claire,  I  don't  know  how 
'you've  kept  your  figure?"  She  came  a  little  closer: 
"You  know,  you're  wonderful." 

"Be  careful,  May.  Don't  overdo  it.  When  one's 
told  that  one  is  wonderful,  one  knows  that  one's  won- 
derful for  one's  age.  First  one's  beautiful,  and  then 
one's  wonderful.  It's  an  insufficient  compensation." 

"My  dear !"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  her  pink  curves 
expressing  as  much  concern  as  could  be  hoped  of 
them.  "What's  the  matter?  You  sound  so  bitter." 

"Bitter?  Dear,  me,  no.  What's  put  that  into 
your  head,  May?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  stupid,  that's  why  you're 
fond  of  me,  I  suppose,  but  I'm  not  so  stupid  as  you 
think.  And  just  because  I  say  you  look  pretty, 
and  you  do !  How  lucky  you  are  to  carry  your 
complexion  in  a  little  pot  instead  of  being  pink  all 
the  time  like  me.  Oh,  don't  be  nasty,  Claire.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  you're  one  of  the  few  people 
who  can  upset  me.  You  used  to  do  it  at  school, 

when  you  were  twelve  and  I  was  eighteen." 

28 


MACKEREL  SKY 

Mrs.  Caldecot  affectionately  laid  an  arm  round 
the  large  shoulder  of  her  friend:  "Don't  be 
absurd!  You're  a  brick.  And  don't  quarrel  with 
me  about  nothing.  Remember  what  I  am  when 
I'm  roused." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  laughed:  "No,  I  won't  quarrel 
with  you.  I've  trouble  enough  this  morning." 

"What's  the  matter  ?  One  of  the  Apostle  spoons 
left  unpolished  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot  with  amiable 
sarcasm. 

"No,  it's  Booker.  Oh,  Claire,  you  don't  know 
how  lucky  you  are  not  to  have  a  maid." 

"I  should  have  thought  it  was  very  nice  to  have 
some  one  to  do  your  hair  for  you,  and  set  out  your 
clothes.  .  .  ." 

"That  part's  all  right.  Only  when  a  maid's  use- 
less she's  a  nuisance,  and  when  a  maid's  useful  she's 
a  tyrant." 

"Bravo!  May.  You  make  epigrams  unawares. 
Or  things  that  sound  like  them  until  you  think  them 
over." 

"She  was  hammering  a  nail  in  with  the  brass  pot 
that  Charlie  brought  back  from  Bangalore.  I 
caught  her  in  the  act." 

"Dear  me !     Did  she  damage  the  nail  ?" 

"Don't  be  absurd.  Booker  does  what  she  likes  in 
this  house,  and  she  and  I  don't  always  agree.  Still 
she  does  bring  me  the  news.  She  always  knows  the 
worst  about  everybody." 

"What  is  the  news?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  lan- 
29 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

guidly,  as  Mrs.  Headcorn  picked  up  a  saucer  filled 
with  pieces  of  orange,  and  they  moved  toward  the 
aviary. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  "except  that 
Bessie  Chale  is  marrying  an  American.  They  say 
he's  frightfully  rich,  but  it  won't  matter  since 
they're  going  to  live  in  California." 

"Is  he  nice?" 

"I've  only  seen  him  once.  He  treated  me  as  if  I 
was  nineteen.  If  I  were  Bessie,  I'd  be  careful.  Men 
who're  as  nice  as  that,  they  can't  be  like  it  inside. 
And,  Claire,  do  you  know,  old  Lord  Niton  has  been 
deserted  by  all  the  servants  at  five  minutes'  notice. 
And  would  you  believe  it,  he  says  he's  declared  war, 
and  is  blacking  his  own  boots,  and  frying  eggs  in 
his  kitchen,  and  he  swears  he'll  never  have  the  place 
cleaned  again.  Not  that  that  would  make  much 
difference.  Poor  old  fellow,  I'm  sorry  for  him. 
He's  been  wanting  to  marry  Mrs.  St.  Lawrence,  you 
know,  the  red-haired  woman,  for  years.  She  might 
have  done  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Dickey  Altrinc- 
ham." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  flickering  into 
interest.  "Is  it  really  improving?" 

"Oh,  you  scandalmonger !" 

"My  dear  girl,  if  you  stay  here  a  little  longer, 
you'll  see  that  things  about  Mrs.  St.  Lawrence  don't 
need  proving.  Bless  her !  And  Altrincham  is  such 
a  changed  man.  Once  upon  a  time  he  didn't  know 

what  to  do  with  himself.     He  couldn't  hunt  seven 

80 


MACKEREL  SKY 

days  a  week.  Now  she's  interested  him  in  Russian 
ballet." 

"So  far  as  I  can  remember  Dicky,'*  said  Mrs.  Cal- 
decot,  "there  are  things  in  the  Russian  Ballet  that 
might  interest  him." 

"I  don't  mean  what  you  mean,  but  what  does  it 
matter?  Mrs.  St.  Lawrence  is  happy,  and  Dickey's 
happy  and  Cicely  Altrincham  doesn't  know,  and 
there  you  are.'* 

Mrs.  Caldecot  laughed:  "My  dear  May,  you 
know,  you're  perfectly  immoral." 

"How  do  you  mean,  immoral?"  asked  Mrs.  Head- 
corn,  hotly. 

"Well,  you  tell  me  this  sort  of  thing  with  what 
some  people  would  call  'beautiful  charity,'  and  other 
people  'scandalous  lack  of  proper  feeling.*  You 
don't  seem  to  think  there's  anything  wrong  in  it,  or 
exciting  in  it,  or  any  of  that.  You  discuss  that 
sort  of  thing  as  if  it  were  an  interesting  item  out 
of  the  garden  notes  in  the  newspaper." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  "if  one  was  to 
begin  to  bother  about  things  being  right  and  wrong, 
one  would  never  be  done.  What  with  my  house- 
hold .  .  .  and  all  that,  if  people  keep  decently  quiet 
and  know  how  to  make  themselves  happy,  if  I  don't 
like  *em,  I  say  let  'em  because  I  don't  know  'em,  and 
if  I  do  like  'em  I  still  say  let  'em  because  I  like  'em." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Caldecot  said  nothing.  With 
trembling  fingers  she  held  up  a  fragment  of  orange 

to  the  contemptuous  bill  of  Kitchener,  the  youngest 

31 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

of  the  cockatoos.  But  at  last  she  put  it  down,  laid 
a  hand  on  Mrs.  Headcorn's  arm  and  said :  "You  are 
a  dear,  you  know.  You're  so  straight  yourself,  and 
yet  you  don't  mind  other  people  being  .  .  .  weak. 
I  don't  mean  weak  exactly,  but  not  like  you." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  said  Mrs.  Head- 
corn,  crossly.  "I've  had  my  romances." 

"Have  you?     You  never  told  me." 

"Oh,  well.  .  .  ."  She  flushed  faintly.  "They 
didn't  come  to  anything." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  laughed :  "Happy  May !  Perhaps 
it  may  be  best  really  that  romances  shouldn't  come 
to  anything.  So  don't  let's  even  talk  about  ro- 
mances ;  let's  talk  of  something  else.  I  love  being 
here.  I'm  always  happy  here,  and  it's  so  sweet  of 
you  to  have  asked  Bob." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  ingenuously,  "most 
people  do  ask  you  together." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  turned  away  her  head:  "Oh,  my 
dear,  really!  You  know  you've  got  the  tact  of  an 
elephant." 

"What  do  I  want  tact  for?"  asked  Mrs.  Head- 
corn.  "I'm  your  greatest  friend,  aren't  I  ?** 

"Yes,  I  know.  Still,  don't  put  it  like  that.  You 
embarrass  me." 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh  dear!  Claire,  don't  look  like  a 
dying  duck  in  a  thunderstorm.  Bob's  in  love  with 
you,  and  you're  in  love  with  him,  and  I'm  very  fond 
of  both  of  you,  so  I  ask  you  to  stay  here  together. 

There's  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about." 

32 


MACKEREL  SKY 

"All  right,  I  own  up.  But  for  heaven's  sake, 
May,  don't  rub  it  in." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  during 
which  the  cockatoos  were  at  last  persuaded  to 
accept  the  quarters  of  orange,  for  they  realized 
that  until  they  emptied  the  saucer,  these  irritating 
women  would  continue  to  push  the  fruit  into  their 
faces,  while  Chang  and  Suki  would  persist  in  stand- 
ing against  the  perches  with  an  air  of  appetite. 
Then,  while  she  tickled  the  aged  Jimmy  behind  his 
untidy  ruff,  Mrs.  Caldecot,  looking  away,  said: 
**Do  you  know,  May,  this  is  the  first  time  we've 
talked  about  .  .  .  and  I've  known  you  since  I 
was  seven.  .  .  .  well,  you  know,  about  Bob  and  me, 
and  yet  you've  known  all  about  it.  How  is  it  you've 
never  asked  me  anything  about  it  ?" 

"Why  should  I  since  I  knew  ?" 

"I  suppose  Booker  told  you,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
suddenly  savage. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  reflectively,  "Booker 
didn't  tell  me.  She  may  know,  of  course.  She  does 
generally.  But  then,  you  know,  it  started  such  a 
long  time  before  I  got  Booker,  and  nowadays  you 
aren't  very  noticeable." 

"Thank  you." 

"It  isn't  like  in  the  beginning.  I  remember,  after 
Geoffrey  went  away,  I  wondered  who  you'd  take 
up  with." 

"Oh?     You  didn't   see  me  in  the  part   of  the 

deserted  wife,  lonely  and  dignified?" 

33 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"No.  I  thought  you'd  be  dignified  all  right,  but 
you  were  too  pretty  to  be  lonely.  I  thought  it  was 
going  to  be  Stephen  Britford." 

"Old  Stephen !  Oh,  May,  I've  better  taste  than 
that." 

"Well,  he  was  frightfully  faithful.  First  he 
wanted  to  marry  you,  and  then  he  came  to  your 
wedding  and  was  a  pal  of  Geoffrey's  and  when 
Geoffrey  went  Stephen  was  still  there." 

"He  still  is." 

"And  always  will  be.  You'll  never  get  rid  of 
Stephen." 

"But  how  did  you  come  to  think.  .  .  .  But  what 
made  you  think  it  was  Bob?" 

"I  wasn't  sure  at  first.  It  was  after  Geoffrey 
had  been  gone  three  years,  I  think.  Don't  you 
remember  the  night  you  came  into  my  box  at  the 
opera  ?  It  was  the  first  time  you  heard  *La  Boheme.'  " 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

''Well,  I  had  my  suspicions  of  Bob  before  then, 
and  that  evening  he  came  in  between  the  acts  and 
sat  with  us.  Then  he  told  us  a  story  about  a  butler. 
Now  he  had  told  us  both  together  that  same  story 
a  month  or  two  before." 

"I  don't  remember.  But  suppose  he  did?"  asked 
Mrs.  Caldecot,  lightly. 

"You  laughed.  Laughed,  as  if  you'd  never  heard 
such  a  funny  story  before." 

"Oh,  surely  that  wasn't  enough  to  convict  him?" 

"Perhaps   not,   though   it's    suspicious   when   a 
34 


MACKEREL  SKY 

woman  laughs  at  a  man's  old  story.  But  it  got 
much  more  suspicious.  Don't  you  remember  you 
said:  'Oh,  Mr.  Rodbourne,  do  tell  Mrs.  Headcorn 
that  other  story  about  the  barber.  You  know,  the 
story  your  old  man  in  Bond  Street  told  you !"  And 
he  did.  Don't  look  at  me  with  eyes  like  saucers.  I 
may  be  stupid,  but  I  know  when  a  woman's  show- 
ing off  a  man  to  her  friends.  You  were  proud  of 
him,  Claire ;  you  wanted  to  show  me  how  delightful 
and  amusing  he  was ;  you  wanted  him  to  make  an 
impression  on  me.  Is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  it's  true.  And  you  never  said  anything! 
Never  made  a  comment ;  never  dragged  confidences 
out  of  me." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  did  not  reply,  and  Mrs.  Caldecot 
realized  better  than  ever  the  beautiful  simplicity  of 
her  friend.  Erratic,  muddle-headed,  sagacious  only 
at  intervals,  she  had  a  magnificent  capacity  for 
absorbing  things  as  they  were  and  treating  them 
as  they  are.  Her  spirit  had  a  splendid  digestion. 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  "I  look  upon 
him  as  your  husband." 

"So  do  I.    And  yet  he  can  never  be  that." 

At  that  moment,  the  two  Pekingese,  by  scratch- 
ing at  the  aviary  door,  suggested  that  they  had  had 
enough  of  the  cockatoos.  As  if  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,  Mrs.  Headcorn  opened  the  door,  upon 
which  Chang  and  Suki  stared  at  the  opening  with 
the  catlike  air  of  offense  which  characterizes  these 
dogs,  and  looked  up  at  her  as  if  asking  why  ever 

35 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

she  should  have  done  this.  But  the  opening  of  the 
door  had  a  reflex  influence  upon  her,  and  she  went 
into  the  drawing-room,  still  carrying  before  her 
the  saucer  containing  the  remains  of  the  orange. 
Mrs.  Caldecot  had  to  smile  as  Jier  friend  first  put 
it  down  upon  a  mahogany  table,  then  picked  it  up, 
and  with  her  blue  linen  skirt  wiped  moisture  from 
the  precious  wood.  "Dear  old  May,"  thought  Mrs. 
Caldecot,  "she's  found  out  how  to  live,  loving  all 
sorts  of  nice  things  made  of  wood  and  china,  which 
always  remain  the  same."  She  watched  her  toler- 
antly, envying  that  fussy  little  brain  so  entirely 
preoccupied  with  sticks  and  stones  that  nothing 
could  make  into  men.  Then,  as  often  happens  be- 
tween friends,  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  surprised,  for 
Mrs.  Headcorn  suddenly  turned  and  said,  "Why 
not?" 

"How?  Why  not?  What?"  asked  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot, putting  down  the  Times  which  she  had  just 
taken  up. 

"How  do  you  mean,  you  can  never  marry  Bob? 
Suppose  Geoffrey  died?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  If  he  did  die.  But  men  like 
Geoffrey,  they  live  hard  and  they  die  hard.  He'll 
live  long  enough  to  do  me  out  of  Bob  anyway." 

"Claire!"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  rather  shocked. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  think  that  if  Geoffrey 
were  to  live  until  you  were  .  .  .  fifty,  Bob  wouldn't 
marry  you." 

"Of  course  he  would,  if  I  would." 
36 


MACKEREL  SKY 

"You  wouldn't !"  cried  Mrs.  Headcorn,  horrified. 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't  after  we'd  .  .  .  after  so 
many  years.  I'd  know  he  wouldn't  really  want  to ; 
he'd  be  an  old  bachelor  then,  and  I  an  unmaidenly 
old  maid.  He'd  ask  me  because  it  was  the  thing  to 
do,  and  I'd  refuse  him  for  his  own  good.  After 
that  I'd  marry  him.  Women  are  awful  fools  at 
fifty.  We  don't  begin  to  know  anything  about 
romance  until  we're  forty.  So  cheer  up,  May; 
your  time's  coming." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  refused  to  be  turned  aside  by 
suggestions  of  romances  for  herself.  She  became 
practical:  "I  say,  isn't  there  a  law  or  something 
that  says  that  if  some  one  hasn't  been  seen  for  seven 
years  you  can  promote  their  death?" 

"'Presume,'  darling,  not  'promote,'  however  at- 
tractive the  idea  may  be.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that. 
I've  been  to  see  my  solicitors  about  it,  and  sat  there 
hours  staring  at  black  japanned  boxes,  until  I  know 
the  names  on  them:  'Exors  of  Lafcadio  Jones'  is 
a  pal  of  mine  by  now." 

"And  what  did  the  solicitor  say  ?" 

"He  said  as  you  do.  It  can  be  done  if  the  per- 
son hasn't  been  heard  of.  Only,  if  he  comes  back, 
and  one's  married  again.  .  .  ." 

"Bigamy?"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  feeling  that  it 
would  be  awful  and  lovely. 

"Not  exactly  bigamy.  Only  legal  bigamy.  But 
it  would  be  very  difficult  to  explain  in  society. 
Besides,  you  know,  it  can't  be  done  for  another 

37 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

reason.  Geoffrey  has  been  heard  of.  Geoffrey  isn't 
dead." 

"How  do  you  know?** 

"Well,  Geoffrey  never  led  a  quiet  life,  as  you 
may  remember.  About  ten  years  ago  some  one 
saw  him  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  was  even  introduced 
to  one  of  the  ladies  he  calls  Mrs.  Caldecot." 

"Well,  that's  ten  years,  not  seven,"  said  Mrs. 
Headcorn,  still  practical. 

"Sorry,  May,  but  about  four  years  ago  Geoffrey 
was  in  New  York,  and  signalized  the  occasion  by 
assaulting  a  man  in  a  bar,  and  got  fined.  The 
newspapers  took  it  up  because  Geoffrey  made  an 
eloquent  speech  in  court,  in  which  he  described  the 
affair  as  a  prelude  to  Prohibition.  A  kind  friend 
sent  me  a  cutting  with  Geoffrey's  photograph.  It 
was  very  like  him,  but  more  so.  Oh,  don't  make  me 
talk  about  him  like  that,  May;  you  make  me  so 
hard.  I  don't  want  to  be  bitter  to  him.  Poor  old 
Geoff,  he  can't  die  just  to  please  me." 

**What  I  can't  .  .  .  for  .  .  .  understand  .  .  . 
fffu,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  as  she  blew  upon  the 
silver  ash  tray  which  resisted  polish,  "is  how  he 
came  to  leave  you." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  at  once  reply.  She  did 
not  like  that.  She  did  not  mind  Mrs.  Headcorn 
talking  about  her  present  condition,  but  she  was 
feminine  enough  to  dislike  being  plainly  told  that 
she  had  been  left,  that  she  had  failed  to  hold.  She 

was  a  true  woman,  and  she  would  have  felt  insulted 

88 


MACKEREL  SKY 

if  she  had  been  rejected  by  a  boa  constrictor.  So 
she  evaded:  "Men  are  like  that." 

"Not  with  women  like  you,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn, 
so  hotly  that  she  dispelled  the  offense.  "What 
Geoffrey  could  have  been  thinking  of  to  leave  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  London,  the  wittiest,  the 
smartest.  .  .  ." 

"That'll  do,  May.  Keep  all  that  for  your  young 
man." 

"Well,  I  mean  it.  And  he'd  only  been  married 
two  or  three  years." 

"Yes,  he  said  something  about  that  before  going, 
and  remarked  that  it  had  felt  more  like  three  lives 
than  three  years,  and  that  as  he  wasn't  a  cat  he 
couldn't  spare  me  any  more  lives.  I  didn't  mind 
that;  it  made  me  giggle  a  little.  Geoffrey  always 
had  a  ready  tongue.  Poor  old  Geoff,  perhaps  I 
was  rather  difficult.  You  see,  I  was  twenty-two, 
and  in  those  days,  as  you  know,  twenty-two  was 
twenty-two,  instead  of  being  eighty-nine  as  it  is 
now.  Geoff  was  so  handsome,  and  so  dashing." 

"Yes,  he  was  all  that.  I  rather  fancied  him  my- 
self, you  know,  Claire.  A  good  thing  I  didn't 
get  him." 

"Thank  you.  The  elephant  resumes  its  pawing, 
dear  May.  But  you're  right.  I  was  such  a  rigid 
sort  of  child.  And  Geoff  reminded  me  of  the  hero 
in  Under  Two  Flags.  Mamma  never  let  me  read 
any  novels  except  those  which  had  been  found  safe 
in  her  time.  He  was  just  like  that,  with  a  modern 
4  89 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

touch,  the  Oscar  Wilde  drawing-room  touch.  That's 
what  I  called  modern.  And  he  was  to  be  the  hero, 
and  I  his  vivandiere.  I  knew  that  he  drank  a  little 
too  much,  but  Mamma  said  that  men  were  a  crude 
and  brutal  sex,  which,  however,  must  be  pursued 
because  it  was  noble  and  brave.  So  I  said  I'd 
reform  him.  I  tried.  If  I  hadn't  tried,  if  I'd 
indulged  him,  he  might  be  here  now." 

"You  don't  regret  him?" 

"Of  course  not.  But  I'm  a  little  ashamed  of 
myself.  I'm  afraid  I  gave  him  such  a  just-so  life, 
with  exactly  the  right  number  of  servants  for  the 
house,  soup,  fish,  entree,  joint,  sweet,  savory,  as 
done  in  the  period,  and  at  the  right  hour.  Riviera 
in  the  winter,  Scotland  in  the  summer,  everything 
just  so.  I  didn't  like  w.omen  who  put  anything  on 
their  face.  Geoff  did,  and  as  I  didn't  ask  them 
to  the  house,  he  got  them  outside.  And  we  had  an 
awful  row  because  I  went  with  somebody  to  the 
Court  Theater  to  see  a  play  of  Bernard  Shaw's; 
when  I  talked  about  it,  Geoff  said  I  was  putting  on 
side.  And  so  I  was,  May.  I  bored  him." 

"Never !    Not  with  those  eyes." 

"Oh,  you  baby!  Men  get  tired  of  our  eyes  and 
the  rest.  All  that  beauty  of  the  body,  it's  only 
meant  to  get  the  man  to  hang  on  with  you  long 
enough  to  get  used  to  you,  fond  of  you,  if  you  like. 
And  ten  years  later  he's  forgotten  the  color  of  your 
eyes,  but  he  buys  you  spectacles." 

"You're   rather  cynical.     After  all,  you're  all 
40 


MACKEREL  SKY 

right ;  you've  got  Bob.    I  don't  see  why  you  should 
be  so  hard." 

"I'm  not,  really,  except  when  I  think  of  that 
time.  Sixteen  years  ago.  It's  always  agony  to 
think  of  sixteen  years  ago.  One  wants  to  get  back 
there,  with  all  the  advantages  one  had,  and  with 
all  the  experiences  that  one  has  gained  by  sacri- 
ficing them.  One  can't.  That's  what  makes  one 
hard.  I'm  one  of  the  women  who  got  soft  too  late. 
We  all  do.  But,"  and  an  inflection  of  triumph 
came  into  Mrs.  Caldecot's  voice,  "I  did  try  with 
Bob,  and  I  have  made  something  of  it.  I^'s  nice  to 
be  able  to  talk  to  you,  May,  because  you  don't 
seem  to  think  any  the  worse  of  me.  After  all,  from 
your  point  of  view  as  a  respectable  woman,  I'm  a 
bad  wife.  I  married  Geoff  for  better,  for  worse, 
and  what  I  ought  to  have  done  was  to  do  nothing. 
Or  try  to  help  him.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  at  the 
back  of  your  mind  you  didn't  disapprove  of  me  just 
a  little  bit." 

"Not  at  all." 

"Oh?    Then  you  must  be  envious." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  flushing. 
"I  don't  see  why  I've  got  to  be  one  or  the  other. 
Of  course,  I  was  so  happy  with  Charlie  that  I  don't 
suppose  I  understand.  Mind  you,  Claire,  Charlie 
wasn't  perfect  either.  India  upset  his  health  a 
lot,  and  at  one  time  he  started  reading  Plain  Tales 
from  the  Hills,  and  he  started  a  plain  tale  by 
himself." 

41 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  very  interested. 
"And  what  did  you  do?'* 

"Oh,  I  sent  her  a  couple  of  return  tickets,  because 
Charlie  was  always  so  careless  and  lost  his  purse." 

"And  they  came  back  by  the  next  train?"  cried 
Mrs.  Caldecot. 

"Yes.  How  did  you  know?  I  suppose  you 
guessed,  but  I  didn't  think  that  would  happen.  I'm 
so  innocent." 

"You're  a  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "You're 
a  rare  thing :  a  really  good  woman,  which  is  another 
way  of  saying  you've  got  no  morals." 

**Well,  I  never  heard  it  put  like  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Headcorn,  thoughtfully.  "I  suppose  I  haven't 
got  any  morals  in  the  way  people  mean  it.  I  mean 
to  say,  having  morals  means  that  you  don't  think 
other  people  have  any,  isn't  that  it?  Though  it 
doesn't  matter.  What  I  say  is  this:  In  life  one 
must  do  what  one  can,  and  most  of  the  time  one 
can't." 

"It's  something  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot. 
"One  gets  carried  away.  You  know,  Geoff  hadn't 
gone  five  years  before  Bob  .  .  .  before  it  began. 
And  for  two  years  he'd  been  following  me  about 
and  asking  me  to  run  away  with  him,  and  silly 
things  like  that;  lovely,  silly  things.  One  always 
wants  to  do  silly  things  when  one's  in  love ;  it's  the 
thing  to  do  then.  And  I  was  always  telling  him  that 
he'd  get  tired  of  me,  and  he  got  absurd,  asked  if  I 

minded  his  arranging  to  have  Geoff  shot  quietly. 

42 


MACKEREL  SKY 

You  know,  I'm  not  quite  sure  it  wasn't  that  got 
me  round.  There's  something  perfectly  ridiculous 
in  Bob,  a  touch  of  the  Middle  Ages.  He  really  set 
to  work  with  an  agency  to  find  Geoff;  and  he  came 
and  saw  me  every  day,  saying  that  when  they'd 
found  Geoff  they'd  wait  till  he  got  to  Italy  or  Spain, 
where  they  did  those  things  discreetly  and  cheaply. 
I  was  horrified.  For  one  moment  it  was  awful, 
because  the  agency  thought  they  found  Geoffrey  at 
Nice,  and  Bob  came  along  with  a  sham  letter,  sup- 
posed to  be  written  by  an  Italian  princess,  which 
was  to  lure  Geoff  into  the  land  of  efficient  modern 
murder." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  laughed:  "Absolutely  Drury 
Lane." 

" Absolutely.  It  was  exactly  what  I  needed.  If 
only  Bob  had  been  able  to  hang  a  silken  ladder  to 
my  window  .  .  .  I'd  have  opened  it.  Only  Seville 
Street  is  a  rotten  place  for  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
ought  to  have  gone  to  Hampstead." 

"You  mean  it  was  an  adventure." 

"Yes.  It  was  still  Under  Two  Flags,  but  there 
was  something  else." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  May,  don't  think  so  slowly  and  say  *what.' 
You've  nearly  prevented  me  telling  you.  How  can 
I  tell  you  the  truth  if  you  ask  for  it?  Still,  curl 
up  your  trunk  and  let  me  talk.  You  know  Bob's 
success  in  Parliament,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn.     "Everybody  says 
48 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

he  was  a  fool  not  to  take  the  undersecretaryship 
they  offered  him.  I  say  that  for  a  young  man  of 
thirty-eight.  .  .  ." 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot. 
"If  he'd  taken  it  they'd  have  left  him  there. 
Whereas  now  he's  in  danger,  or  at  least  a  complica- 
tion, and  after  being  annoyed  with  him  they'll  have 
to  give  him.  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  as  if  afraid  of  say- 
ing too  much.  "Anyhow,  he  wasn't  a  success  then. 
He'd  been  overlooked.  Bob  found  things  too  easy, 
you  know.  He  had  enough  money  to  do  what  he 
liked,  and  within  six  months  of  being  called  to  the 
bar,  at  twenty-four,  he  won  East  Farnshire  easily. 
And  he  began.  I  didn't  know  him  then,  but  I 
looked  up  the  speech.  You  don't  remember  the 
speech,  do  you  May?" 

«No.    Go  on." 

"Well,  he  made  a  sensation.  In  his  maiden  speech, 
which  took  only  half  an  hour  to  deliver,  there  were 
twenty-nine  epigrams.  He  nearly  created  a  riot  in 
the  House.  After  the  first  five  minutes,  members  were 
sending  out  for  their  friends  from  the  smoking- 
room  to  come  and  hear  the  performance.  He'd 
worked  it  up  with  a  man  on  the  other  side.  They'd 
been  collecting  epigrams  since  their  first  year  at 
Oxford;  that  afternoon  they  shared.  Well,  Bob 
was  a  sensation.  He  lasted  the  time  of  one  morn- 
ing paper,  two  afternoon  papers,  to  say  nothing 
of  echoes  in  the  weeklies  for  a  while.  Everybody 
said  that  he  was  the  coming  man,  which  was  another 

a 


MACKEREL  SKY 

way  of  saying  that  he'd  come  to  nothing.  He  had 
a  splendid  first  session.  Then  he  had  a  session 
much  like  the  first;  and  another.  And  another. 
Nothing  seemed  to  happen.  There  was  another 
election  and  he  got  in  again,  and  nothing  happened." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn. 

"No,  don't  you  see.  He  made  his  effect  too  soon. 
They  got  used  to  him,  and,  by  degrees,  the  Speaker 
ceased  to  see  him  as  often  as  he  used  to.  And  Bob 
didn't  get  put  on  to  committees  and  Royal  Com- 
missions. He  was  treading  water,  and  he  might  have 
gone  on  doing  that  to  the  end  of  his  life.  When  I 
met  him  he  was  nearly  thirty.  Oh,  May,  it  was 
dreadful." 

"Really,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  "I'm  glad  I've 
nothing  to  do  with  politics,  I  can't  understand  how 
a  man  can  be  ruined  by  being  brilliant." 

"Easily,  in  England.  But  that's  not  the  question. 
When  I  started  taking  an  interest  in  Bob  it  was 
like  this :  After  a  fantastic  two  years,  during  which 
Bob  was  the  white  hope  of  the  party,  whatever  a 
white  hope  may  be,  he  told  me,  but  I've  forgotten, 
he  had  the  most  terrific  time.  He  seconded  the 
address,  he  was  twenty  years  younger  than  the 
youngest  member  on  the  War  Office  Departmental 
Committee,  and  from  all  over  the  country  came 
requests  that  he  should  speak  at  big  meetings.  They 
wanted  him  over  in  Manchester.  It  was  a  great 
compliment  for  a  Home  Counties  member.  Then, 

well,  how's  one  to  explain?  he  got  on,  and  he  didn't. 

45 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Five  years  later  he  was  still  being  asked  to  speak, 
one  day  at  a  big  Federation  meeting,  but  on  another 
occasion  some  silly  local  association  had  the  cheek 
to  offer  him  his  railway  fare.  And  lots  of  big 
shows  left  him  out.  I  don't  suppose  you  quite 
understand  what  that  means,  May,  but  the  man 
who  seconded  the  address  was  not  asked  to  move 
or  even  second  an  amendment  when  his  side  went 
out  of  office." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  "I  don't  understand. 
I  suppose  it  was  disagreeable.  Why  did  it  happen?" 

Mrs.  Caldecot  made  a  vague  gesture :  "How  does 
one  know  ?  How  can  one  explain  why  a  man  makes 
a  brilliant  start  and  somehow  doesn't  satisfy  his 
promises?  I  suppose  people  got  used  to  him,  and 
his  brilliancy  carried  him  away.  You  see,  Bob's  too 
brilliant.  Whether  the  subject  is  Ireland,  quarries, 
or  treasury  bills,  he's  always  got  something  sen- 
sible and  clever  to  say.  They  knew  he  was  right, 
and  they  hated  him  because  he  was  so  versatile. 
Oh,  Pve  thought  about  this  so  much.  In  this 
country,  they  like  a  Jack-Of-No-Trade,  rather  than 
a  Jack-Of-All.  Things  happened  vaguely ;  his  mail 
grew  less ;  sometimes  the  newspapers  referred  to  him 
as  one  of  the  most  promising  men  in  his  party,  and 
sometimes  they  made  another  list  ...  of  junior 
members.  He  was  stale." 

"I  suppose  he  was  very  unhappy,"  said  Mrs. 
Headcorn. 

"Yes.      It  was   awful.      He   saw   things   pretty 
46 


MACKEREL  SKY 

clearly,  you  know.  He  realized  that  if  something 
didn't  happen  he'd  remain  a  brilliant  free  lance,  and 
he  would  have  no  precise  reputation  for  anything. 
He  was  in  despair.  He  doubted  himself.  I  remem- 
ber the  first  time  we  talked  about  it.  He  said  to 
me :  *Pm  too  clever ;  I  haven't  got  the  blindness  to 
everything  but  one  subject  that  gets  a  man  so 
trusted  that  they  listen  to  him  on  the  questions  he's 
blind  to.  I  ought  to  specialize  on  concrete.  Fill 
my  head  with  concrete.  The  British  public  prefers 
heads  filled  with  concrete  to  heads  filled  with  ab- 
stract. They're  harder.  They're  useful  against 
brick  walls,  if  only  to  break  on  them.'  And  he 
didn't  know  how  to  get  out ;  he  was  doing  too  many 
things,  harboring  too  many  ideas.  He  was  working 
himself  to  a  shadow,  and  he  wouldn't  let  go  of  any- 
thing, and  ...  I  loved  him  so." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  looked  up,  for  this  was  too  ir- 
relevant even  for  her. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "I  think  it  was  that 
moved  me.  He  was  so  lost,  as  well  as  so  wonderful. 
I  wanted  to  help  him;  I  didn't  know  how  I  was 
going  to  do  it,  but  somehow  I  felt  I  could.  Don't 
think  me  too  noble,  May ;  I  don't  say  that  it's  out 
of  charity  I  did  this.  No,  I  felt  it  was  going  to  be 
the  most  exciting  adventure  in  the  world,  to  make  a 
man,  perhaps  to  make  a  power.  Oh,  I  was  quite 
selfish,  but  there  was  no  harm  in  it,  because  he 
needed  me.  He'd  had  such  an  awful  time  in  so 

many  ways ;  a  girl  he'd  cared  for  had  broken  off 

47 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

her  engagement  with  him  a  fortnight  before  the 
marriage  was  supposed  to  take  place,  and  walked 
straight  from  her  house  to  the  registrar's  and 
married  somebody  else.  That's  why  he  was  drug- 
ging himself  with  politics,  and  the  drug  wasn't  work- 
ing because  he'd  lost  himself,  because  he  didn't 
believe  any  more  in  his  power,  in  his  reputation, 
because  he  was  almost  getting  humble  when  he  com- 
pared himself  with  some  stuffed  eiderdown  on  the 
front  bench  or  some  nincompoop  journalist  with 
the  eggshell  still  sticking  to  him.  And  it  was  I, 
oh,  I'm  proud  of  it,  who  changed  all  that.  When 
I  found  him,  he'd  ceased  to  exist.  A  year  later,  quite 
suddenly,  he  must  have  realized  it.  He  said  some- 
thing to  me." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Mrs.  Caldecot  hesitated,  as  if  the  revelation  of 
this  intimacy  of  the  spirit  seemed  indelicate.  Then : 
"Well,  he  said  to  me :  'When  we  met,  I  was  only  a 
sort  of  ghost.  And  now  I'm  not  a  man,  I'm  an  act 
of  faith.'  He  was  right,  you  know,  and  I  loved  him 
for  it.  It  was  as  if  he  were  my  child  in  a  way.  He 
said  other  lovely  things,  that  men  think  themselves 
very  grand  and  important,  but  that  in  reality 
they're  only  shadows  to  which  the  love  of  women 
gives  a  body.  You  see  how  it  is :  he  needs  me.  Oh, 
I  don't  want  to  pretend:  I  say  it  again,  it  was 
really  because  I  loved  him,  and  not  just  because  I 
wanted  Jo  help  him.  I  remember  too  well  what  I 

suffered  during  those  three  years  with  Geoff.    And 

48 


MACKEREL  SKY 

the  five  years  after  Geoff  went  away,  when  I  was 
alone,  when  I'd  got  used  to  being  a  deserted  wife, 
and  made  my  little  circle,  and  gone  back  every  night 
to  that  dear  little  house,  as  they  call  it,  and  that 
dear  little  silent  life.  Bob  changed  all  that.  It  was 
like  coming  on  a  torch  in  a  fog.  He's  given  me  such 
heavenly  happiness,  always,  always,  even  when  he 
was  careless  in  the  things  he  said,  as  men  are  when 
they've  a  clever  tongue,  and  hurt  me,  even  when 
he  was  taken  up  with  some  idea  and  I  didn't  matter 
to  him  more  than  a  bit  of  furniture.  I  liked  being 
his  bit  of  furniture.  Oh,  yes,  it's  been  beautiful, 
and  now  ..."  a  tone  of  coldness,  almost  of  despair 
came  into  her  voice.  "Oh,  well,  I  suppose  I'd  better 
be  happy  .  .  .  while  it  lasts." 

Mrs.  Head  corn  suddenly  put  down  the  ash  tray. 
Her  blue  eyes  grew  quite  round:  "How  do  you 
mean,  Claire  ?  While  it  lasts  ?" 

For  the  first  time  in  this  intimate  conversation 
Mrs.  Caldecot  flushed.  She  looked  very  beautiful 
with  her  pale  cheeks  so  dyed,  but  the  sudden  dilation 
of  her  eyes  belied  this  air  of  youth:  "Oh,  I  don't 
know.  Only  you  see  .  .  .  he's  younger  than  me." 

"Six  months,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn. 

"Yes,  six  months.  Say  ten  years.  I  thought  you 
were  too  conventional,  May,  to  think  that  a  man  of 
thirty-eight  and  a  woman  of  thirty-eight  are  of 
the  same  age." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  tolerantly,  "I  know, 
of  course,  that  men  wear  better  than  women." 

49 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  absurd,**  said  Mrs.  Caldecot. 
"Do  you  really  think  I'm  thinking  about  my  pre- 
cious face?  Do  you  think  it's  my  face  has  held  Bob 
for  eight  years?  No  woman's  face  lasts  a  man 
more  than  a  year  or  two.  However  beautiful  it  is,  he 
knows  all  about  it ;  he  may  not  be  sick  of  it,  but  he 
ceases  to  take  an  interest  in  it.  So  long  as  one 
doesn't  get  repulsive  it  doesn't  matter  what  one 
looks  like.  You  may  catch  a  man  with  your  face, 
but  it's  with  something  else  you  hold  him,  with 
charm  if  you've  got  any,  with  interest  in  his  im- 
mensely important  affairs,  by  making  him  feel  he's  a 
god,  your  god,  and  that  nobody  understands  him 
like  you  do.  That's  what  I  mean.  But  it's  not  that. 
Bob's  younger  than  me  in  his  mind ;  even  now  he'll 
do  dear  little  schoolboyish  things,  brag,  tell  me  the 
terrible  revenge  he'll  take  upon  some  Cabinet  Minis- 
ter, and  show  off  to  me  when  he's  rehearsing  a  speech, 
glancing  at  me  sideways  to  see  that  I'm  smiling 
where  required.  They  all  do  it,  to  all  women,  and 
he  feels  superior,  and  kind,  and  they  love  feeling 
superior.  They're  babies,  all  of  them,  babies  of 
genius  sometimes,  but  babies  to  the  very  end.  They 
know  all  sorts,  of  things  we  don't :  facts,  and  dates, 
and  how  to  find  one's  way  in  Bradshaw.  But  they 
don't  understand  what  they're  doing,  quite.  They 
live  on  the  top,  while  we  live  inside.  We  don't  have 
ideas,  you  know." 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  offendedly,  "that 
I've  got  lots  of  ideas.    And  so  have  you.    Why,  you 

60 


MACKEREL  SKY 

explained  to  me  the  other  day,  well,  what  was  it  you 
did  explain  to  me  on  Tuesday  ?" 

"Trade  unionism?" 

"There,  I  knew  it  was  an  'ism.  Anyhow,  you  had 
lots  of  ideas  about  it  !" 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  with  a  sigh,  **but 
that's  only  froth.  In  women,  the  things  that  really 
matter  are  all  sorts  of  buried  emotions,  enthusiasms 
for  things  and  people,  and  unreasonable  dislikes,  and 
capacities  for  sacrificing  everything,  or  being  com- 
pletely beastly,  one  never  knows  which.  Big,  deep, 
slow,  animal  things.  Men  aren't  like  that,  and  Bob 
isn't.  He  wants  his  toys,  and  I'm  too  old  to  play 
with  him.  Some  girl  can  play  with  him  for  a  few 
years,  until  she  grows  older  than  he.  I'm  not 
enough,  he  wants  a  playmate,  not  a  kindly  nursery 
governess." 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  "that  I  don't 
know  in  the  least  what  you're  talking  about.  Why 
does  Bob  want  a  girl  when  he's  got  you?  And 
besides,  it'll  be  all  right.  Mark  my  words,  one  of 
these  days  Geoffrey'll  die,  or  you'll  get  a  chance  to 
divorce  him.  Then  you  can  marry  Bob  and  be 
happy  ever  after." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Her 
hands  nervously  intertwined.  For  a  moment  the 
unfounded  optimism  of  her  friend  moved  her  to 
believe  against  all  evidence.  "Be  happy  ever  after," 
she  thought,  and  then  aloud :  "I  wonder.'* 


51 


CHAPTER  IV 

PATRICIA 

HER  tweed  collar  turned  up,  Patricia  Neale, 
golf  club  in  hand,  stood  in  the  small  room 
Mr.  Headcorn  had  so  placed  as  to  deprive  the 
dining  room  of  light,  and  which  he  had  in  his  life- 
time described  as  the  Home  of  Barbarism.  Dis- 
liking all  games,  preferring  the  collection  of  china 
and  such,  Mrs.  Headcorn  had  realized  that  a  man 
living  near  Basingalton  would  have  to  provide  for 
the  violent  sporting  habits  of  the  country.  So 
the  Home  of  Barbarism  contained  in  a  rack  a  few 
sporting  rifles ;  fishing  rods  were  stacked  in  a  cor- 
ner; disused  leggings  and  perforated  snowboots 
were  ultimately  hidden  there.  This  room,  thought 
Mr.  Headcorn,  helped  to  isolate  the  evil;  in  a 
kindly  mood,  he  had  decorated  it  with  a  series  of 
billiard  pictures,  comprising  "The  Kiss,"  "The 
Cannon,**  and  so  forth. 

So  it  was  naturally  in  the  isolation  ward  reserved 
for  sports  that,  on  this  wet  morning,  Patricia  Neale 
should,  with  a  fluffy  ball,  be  practicing  golf  swings. 
She  seemed  very  preoccupied  and  tenacious.  Her 

little  pink  lips  were  seriously  compressed  as  she 

52 


PATRICIA 

slowly  swung  her  club  up  and  down,  and  fixed  upon 
the  ball  a  gaze  that  was  almost  malignant.  She  was 
doing  rather  badly,  generally  topping  the  ball.  An 
angry  attempt  to  remedy  this  fault  resulted  in  driv- 
ing the  fluffy  ball  between  the  fishing  rods,  where 
for  some  time  Patricia,  on  her  knees,  poked  and 
groveled  among  the  stumps  at  the  ball  that  seemed 
to  tease  her.  When  at  last  she  captured  it,  she 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  about  her,  so  that  she 
might  not  again  lodge  it  so  uncomfortably.  She 
was  very  charming  then  in  her  Harris  tweed  coat 
and  skirt,  where  predominated  mustard  and  brown, 
that  caught  up  the  warm  lights  in  her  curly,  deep- 
brown  hair.  She  seemed  very  slight  and  childish. 
Her  head  was  almost  round,  and  the  effect  was 
accentuated  by  the  close  lie  of  those  curly  locks. 
Under  highly  arched,  slightly  surprised  eyebrows 
shone  rather  bright  blue  eyes  that  looked  at  one  so 
directly  as  to  enhance  the  effect  produced  by  the 
arched  eyebrows.  Everything  in  Patricia  contrib- 
uted to  the  impression  of  youth,  the  small  nose 
with  the  narrow  nostrils  that  promised  coldness  dis- 
guised by  romance,  the  very  small  mouth  with  the 
pouting  roseleaf  lips,  at  most  times  a  little  parted 
and  exhibiting  the  white  brilliance  of  sharp  teeth. 
There  was  in  the  mouth  some  sadness  combined  with 
expectancy,  as  if  Patricia  doubted  herself  and  cov- 
ered the  doubts  with  an  air  of  briskness.  It  was  as 
if  she  tried  to  square  her  firm  little  chin,  to  hold 

up  her  head  on  the  slim  neck  where  the  skin  was  so 

38 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

white  that  one  could  discern  a  faint  network  of 
blue  veins.  Drooping  shoulders,  rather  graceful, 
undeveloped  figure  that  attracted  the  eye  by  its 
delicacy,  the  long  limbs  which  had  not  yet  filled  out, 
the  unmanicured,  rather  red  hands  of  the  country 
girl,  all  this  contributed  to  make  an  appeal.  Pa- 
tricia was  so  essentially  what  women  call  "a  little 
thing,"  and  men  "such  a  little  thing.'* 

For  some  time  Patricia  perseveringly  went  on 
striking  at  the  fluffy  ball.  She  was  slicing  now,  and 
a  certain  misery  came  into  her  blue  eyes.  It  would 
have  been  clear  to  a  sagacious  observer  that  what 
she  was  doing  was  immensely  important,  that 
achievement  in  golf  would  mean  something,  procure 
something.  She  stopped  suddenly,  her  air  of  gloom 
deepened ;  she  put  the  ball  into  her  pocket,  and  for 
a  moment  stood  irresolutely  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  idly  swinging  her  club  from  right  to  left. 
Oh,  it  was  a  nuisance.  She  wasn't  getting  any 
better.  And  Mr.  Rodbourne  had  explained  to  her 
so  perfectly.  She  wondered  why  she  was  so  much 
better  with  him  than  she  was  alone.  Of  course,  he 
was  awfully  good,  and  she  supposed  that  helped.  It 
put  one  on  one's  mettle.  She  knew  she  ought  to  try 
again.  He'd  think  her  so  silly,  and  they'd  be  bound 
to  go  round  again  next  day  if  it  cleared  up,  since 
the  Basingalton  links  were  sand.  Then  by  degrees 
her  thoughts  slowly  turned  away  from  the  game. 
Her  life  had  been  very  full  this  week,  and  she  did  not 
quite  know  what  had  filled  it.  Somehow  there  was 


PATRICIA 

a  difference  between  this  week  and  her  twenty  years 
in  a  Devonshire  village,  which  had  seemed  so  long; 
there  was  something  exciting  in  this  visit ;  it  wasn't 
like  other  visits  which  she  had  paid,  or  like  her  stay 
in  London,  last  year  in  May.  Patricia  concluded 
that  it  must  be  because  they  were  such  awfully  nice 
people. 

A  softness  came  over  her  as  she  thought  of  her 
fellow  guests.  It  was  such  a  jolly  atmosphere. 
Even  mamma,  who  was  rather  short-tempered, 
hadn't  gone  for  her  once.  Mrs.  Headcorn  was  a 
dear,  though  it  was  awful  to  think  that  one  might 
get  as  fat  as  that.  For  a  moment  Patricia  gloomily 
meditated  upon  the  difference  between  Mrs.  Head- 
corn to-day  and  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Headcorn  as  a 
bride  twenty-five  years  before.  One  never  knew.  It 
was  awful.  Oh,  it  must  be  dreadful,  getting  old. 
To  think  that  one  day  she'd  be  thirty!  Patricia 
reflected  upon  what  she  should  do  when  she  was 
thirty.  She  expected  she'd  be  married  and  have  a 
boy  at  the  university.  Well,  no,  not  at  the  univer- 
sity, but  at  a  preparatory  school.  And  give  parties 
to  stuffy  old  gentlemen.  And  see  the  children  she 
knew  now  having  all  the  fun.  Thirty!  She  really 
would  be  thirty  one  day,  and  call  herself  twenty- 
nine.  It  was  awful.  Then  Patricia  remembered 
Mrs.  Caldecot.  She  supposed  Mrs.  Caldecot  must 
be  thirty,  though  in  the  evening  she  certainily  didn't 
look  it.  Patricia  reflected  that  Mrs.  Caldecot  was 
perfectly  charming.  She  was  so  beautiful ;  Patricia 
5  56 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

said  to  herself:  "What  I  can't  make  out  is  how 
she  gets  those  clothes.  That  frock  of  hers  last 
night,  she  got  it  from  the  same  place  as  I  did  when 
mamma  took  me  uptown.  And  yet  I'm  all  over 
hooks  and  eyes,  while  she  looks  as  if  it  was  painted 
on  her."  Patricia  absorbed  herself  in  a  girlish 
brooding.  She  could  not  believe  that  the  time  would 
come  when  her  shoulder  straps  would  hold  in  any 
attitude,  and  when  her  stockings,  by  some  miracle, 
would  never  be  drawn  on  sideways.  Mrs.  Caldecot 
was  like  that.  How  wonderful  she  was.  "Oh," 
thought  Patricia,  "I  do  wish  I  had  gray  eyes,"  and 
was  sad,  not  knowing  that  if  she'd  had  gray  eyes 
she'd  have  wanted  blue.  "Of  course,"  she  reflected 
revengefully,  "she's  getting  rather  stout."  But  as 
she  was  ashamed  of  her  own  salt  cellars,  the  idea  did 
not  satisfy  her.  Besides,  she  wanted  no  revenge  on 
the  older  woman,  for  Mrs.  Caldecot  interested  her 
intensely.  She  seemed  to  know  everybody,  to  play 
bridge  brilliantly,  with  an  air  of  not  caring;  she 
knew  how  to  laugh  at  herself  without  looking  self- 
conscious  ;  she  was  so  entirely  there,  in  the  picture 
without  knowing  it;  she  didn't  seem  to  have  that 
awful  feeling  of  Patricia's,  that  everybody  in  the 
room  had  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  wrists  and  feet, 
and  that  everybody  knew  that  one  of  her  suspenders 
was  broken  and  was  mended  with  a  safety  pin. 

But  Patricia  was  generous  enough  to  feel  only 
admiration  and  not  envy.     She  was  at  an  age  when 

she  wanted  to  worship,  and  if  only  Mrs.  Caldecot 

56 


PATRICIA 

would  let  her,  and  to  go  to  see  her  when  she  went 
up  to  town,  and  tell  her  everything  about  herself, 
and  shop  with  her,  and  perhaps  know  a  little  about 
her.  For  Patricia  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Caldecot  must 
have  a  story.  She  was  so  beautiful,  and  still  was, 
and  hadn't  got  a  husband.  No  doubt  she  was  a 
widow,  but  how  was  it  she  hadn't  married  again? 
Both  men  last  night,  Mr.  Rodbourne  and  a  Captain 
Stanhope,  had  been  very  attentive  to  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
Mr.  Rodbourne  especially.  But  then,  of  course,  he 
was  a  pal  of  hers.  It  would  be  lovely  to  be  a  pal  of 
Mrs.  Caldecot's :  Patricia  envied  Rodbourne. 

For  some  unexpressed  reason  Patricia  allowed 
her  mind  to  dwell  on  Captain  Stanhope  rather  than 
on  the  other  man.  He  really  was  rather  nice,  though 
she  wished  he  wouldn't  wear  a  stock.  Too  fanciful. 
Still,  he'd  made  her  laugh  an  awful  lot,  and  she 
didn't  quite  know  why.  But  Stanhope  was  not  many 
years  older  than  she.  They  were  together  rather 
like  kittens,  and  she  felt  vaguely  shy  when  her 
thoughts  turned  toward  Rodbourne.  She  was 
rather  afraid  of  him,  really,  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  everybody  said  he  was  awfully  clever. 
Still,  he  didn't  talk  cleverly.  He  only  said  nice, 
ordinary  things  about  dogs  and  the  weather.  Only 
he  said  them  in  a  different  way  from  other  people, 
in  a  solid  sort  of  way,  as  if  he  felt  sure  of  himself. 
As  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Caldecot,  Patricia  felt  very 
small  and  unformed.  Also,  his  good  looks  rather  dis- 
turbed her.  She  didn't  approve  of  his  looks,  really, 

57 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

rfor~she  had  been  brought  up  to  think  that  when  a 
man  is  good-looking  he  must  be  effeminate.  Rod- 
bourne's  regular  features,  his  beautiful  skin,  his 
height,  his  broad  shoulders,  his  slim  hips,  all  that 
struck  Patricia  as  very  wonderful  but  a  little  too 
like  a  fashion  plate.  It  would  have  been  more 
natural  if  Rodbourne  had  looked  like  the  fresh- 
faced,  rather  boisterous  squarsons  of  Devonshire, 
been  tweeded  and  untidy  like  them,  and  worn  flannel 
shirts. 

An  impulse  came  to  Patricia  which  she  at  once 
repressed,  having  been  brought  up  as  a  young  lady. 
The  night  before,  when  the  car  crawled  home,  Rod- 
bourne  had  insisted  on  making  an  appointment  with 
the  chauffeur  to  overhaul  it  the  next  morning,  much 
to  the  annoyance  of  the  chauffeur,  but  Rodbourne 
was  unmanageably  mechanical.  Ten  o'clock.  They'd 
be  at  it  now.  Without  telling  herself  why,  Patricia 
thought  steadily  about  Captain  Stanhope,  but  this 
did  not  yield  anything  very  interesting.  She  was 
going  up  to  town  with  Mrs.  Neale  the  day  after 
the  next,  and  wasn't  it  lovely !  she  was  going  to  a 
first  night,  her  first.  Patricia  looked  out  of  the 
window  where  hung  the  veil  of  rain,  and  told  herself 
how  lovely  it  would  be,  with  the  stall  full  of  celeb- 
rities; that  was  something.  And  still  the  tempta- 
tion held  her;  so  at  last  she  told  herself  that  she 
was  bored,  and  that,  as  she  didn't  know  what  to  do, 
she  might  as  well  go  round  to  the  garage  and  see  if 

they  were  having  any  success  with  the  car.    As  she 

58 


PATRICIA 

ran  round  the  house,  head  bent  under  the  rain,  she 
obstinately  made  herself  think  that  she  very  much 
wanted  to  know  whether  they  could  have  the  car 
that  afternoon.  She  wanted  to  go  to  Burleigh  Abbas 
to  .  .  .to  buy  a  stamp. 

She  was  a  little  shy  as  she  went,  picking  between 
the  puddles  plots  of  mud  which  deceived  her  feet. 
It  seemed  such  a  forward  thing  to  do.  She  even 
paused  at  the  edge  of  the  plantation  beyond  which 
lay  the  garage.  The  rain  fell  lightly ;  for  a  moment 
she  stood,  hand  against  the  slender  bole  of  a  young 
ash,  bending  forward  and  withdrawn,  her  clothes 
twinkling  with  raindrops,  her  face  flushed  and  her 
eyes  wide,  upon  the  end  of  every  stray  curl  a  shin- 
ing bead  of  water.  She  was  then  concealed  and 
visible  between  the  trees,  like  a  wood  nymph  that 
hesitates  for  a  moment  between  the  loneliness  of  her 
woods  and  the  dangers  of  that  satyr-haunted  open. 
Then  at  last,  closing  her  eyes  for  a  second  and 
smiling  with  a  deceptive  air  of  secret  understand- 
ing, she  went  with  long  hoyden  strides  toward  the 
chauffeur's  house  and  the  car  under  its  shanty. 
For  a  moment  the  two  men,  who  had  their  backs 
to  her,  did  not  notice  her,  and  Patricia  was  able  to 
watch  them,  half-shy,  half-amused.  Rodbourne  had 
taken  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  rolled  up  his 
sleeves.  He  looked  funny  like  that,  for  his  hair 
was  ruffled,  and  she  could  see  that  he  had  been 
enthusiastic,  for  the  pale  blue  shirt  was  stained  and 
streaked  with  grease.  And,  as  he  stood  sideways 

59 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

to  her,  she  saw  with  an  inexplicable  little  thrill  that 
white  forearm,  along  which  ran  golden  down,  was 
filthy  as  that  of  an  engine  driver.  Then  the 
chauffeur  perceived  her  and  said:  "Good  morning, 
Miss."  Rodbourne  turned  hurriedly,  standing  arms 
away  from  the  body,  smiling  and  confused. 

It  seemed  to  Patricia  then  in  the  immensely  short 
interval  between  that  sight  and  his  first  words  that  a 
change  came  over  her  opinion.  In  that  instant, 
Rodbourne  ceased  to  be  to  her  the  handsome  mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  the  impressive,  the  aloof.  He 
looked  ridiculous,  so  extraordinarily  dirty,  ashamed 
of  himself,  like  a  small  boy  who  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing has  escaped  among  the  coal.  She  wanted  to 
laugh  and,  in  a  funny  sort  of  way,  well,  not  to  cry, 
but  her  throat  swelled  in  the  way  it  did  when  she 
heard  big  pipes,  or  the  "Marseillaise."  She  didn't 
know  why,  and  she  hated  it,  one  of  those  fiery  blushes 
rose  up  from  her  body  to  her  hair,  burning  her, 
and  making  her  feel  dizzy. 

Rodbourne  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  blush. 
Apologetically  he  said:  "Good  morning.  Sorry  I 
can't  shake  hands,"  and  held  out  the  two  infamous 
greasy  objects.  "We've  had  a  terrible  time,  eh, 
Groby?"  ' 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur,  gloomily.  "It 
wasn't  my  fault." 

"Now,  look  here,"  said  Rodbourne,  turning  to 
him,  "don't  say  that  again." 

"I  wasn't  going  to  say  anything,  sir,  except  that 
60 


PATRICIA 

what  I  said  there's  nothing  wrong  with  the  car- 
buretor, and.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  there  might  have  been,"  said  Rodbourne. 

"You  see,  Miss,"  said  Groby,  who  had  been  four- 
teen years  in  Mrs.  Headcorn's  service,  was  sorry 
for  everybody,  and  tolerant  of  some,  "Mr.  Rod- 
bourne  took  the  carburetor  to  pieces.  Said  the 
jet  was  choked  up.  Of  course,  I  said  nothing." 

"No,  Miss  Neale,"  said  Rodbourne.  "He  didn't 
say  anything,  not  a  word." 

"And  of  course  the  jet  was  all  right,"  said  the 
chauffeur,  taking  no  notice. 

"Well,  we  needn't  have  a  catalogue  of  trouble," 
said  Rodbourne.  "Now  I've  found  out  that  a  cyl- 
inder's cracked.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  thought  as  much  last  night." 

Rodbourne  stayed  with  his  mouth  open,  and  sud- 
denly Patricia  gave  a  little  gurgle  which  developed 
into  loud  laughter.  How  funny  they  were,  those 
amateur  engineers.  Rodbourne  looked  a  little  petu- 
lant while  she  laughed.  She  realized  that  he  didn't 
quite  like  it.  And  she  didn't  know  why,  she  liked 
his  not  liking  it.  She  wanted  to  tease  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Rodbourne,"  she  said,  "Mamma  is  really 
going  to  buy  a  car  now.  She  couldn't  until  now 
because  it  would  have  hurt  Alfred's  feelings,  our 
old  coachman,  you  know.  But  he's  dead,  now. 
Therell  be  a  nice  job  in  Devonshire  for  you." 

He  laughed,  and  was  surprised  by  a  note  of  sin- 
cerity in  his  voice  as  he  lightly  replied:  "Sorry, 

61 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

but  I  mustn't  listen  to  the  voice  of  Devonshire  while 
the  whole  country  calls  me  ...  though  it  doesn't 
call  to  me  very  loud,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes  it  does,"  said  Patricia.  Then,  self-con- 
scious, she  turned  to  Groby.  "When  will  you  have 
put  it  right?  If  it  clears  up  we  want  to  go  to 
Burleigh  Abbas  this  afternoon.'* 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  get  to  Burleigh  Abbas  in 
this  car  for  a  fortnight,  Miss.  I'm  just  going  to 
'phone  to  the  works  at  Basingalton  to  have  her 
towed  out.'* 

"So  the  only  thing  to  do,"  said  Rodbourne,  "is 
to  wash."  He  went  to  a  basin  fixed  into  the  wall, 
where  the  late  Mr.  Headcorn's  ideas  of  plumbing 
had  produced  a  tap  screwed  in  the  wrong  way,  so 
that  the  more  one  tried  to  let  out  water  the  more 
one  jammed  the  tap.  This  produced  a  whispered 
oath  which  reached  Patricia  in  a  queerly  intimate 
way.  It  made  her  shy  to  watch  him  soaping  and 
sluicing.  Somehow  it  made  the  bare  arms  more 
evident;  she  felt  attracted  into  an  intimacy  with 
him,  which  embarrassed  her  in  a  nice  way.  He  did 
not  hurry  over  his  washing,  for  fixed  above  the 
taps  was  a  fragment  of  mirror  in  which  now  and 
then,  as  his  head  moved,  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
Patricia's  profile.  Somehow  she  disturbed  him. 
Pretty,  of  course,  very  pretty.  He  discovered  him- 
self trying  to  get  a  side  view  of  those  parted  pink 
lips.  Yes,  he  was  right,  they  did  pout.  He  won- 
dered why  this  should  affect  him;  she  looked  sad, 

62 


PATRICIA 

but  what  should  she  look  sad  about  at  twenty  ?  For 
Rodbourne  had  that  week  become  conscious  that  he 
was  thirty-eight,  nearly  thirty-nine.  He  didn't  feel 
middle-aged,  and  he  didn't  think  he  looked  it,  but 
still  he  was  what  he  was,  and  it  must  tell  on  him 
soon.  He'd  rather  hated  Patricia  the  day  before, 
hated  her  for  being  twenty,  and  ragging  with  that 
cub  Stanhope.  He  turned  while  he  dried  his  hands ; 
they  exchanged  a  few  broken  sentences,  he  looking 
at  her  boldly,  she  looking  away,  or  throwing  him 
quick  glances  through  her  eyelashes.  Then,  acci- 
dentally, she  did  something  that  affected  him  pro- 
foundly. She  had  both  gloved  hands  in  her 
coat  pockets,  and  as  she  withdrew  a  hand  the  fluffy 
golf  ball  came  out  and  dropped  into  a  hollow 
between  two  flagstones,  where  had  collected  the 
most  infamous  liquid  results  of  motor  overhaul- 
ing. "Oh  P'  cried  Patricia,  "my  ball !"  Rodbourne 
was  filled  for  the  first  time  with  the  extraordi- 
nary pity  for  women  which  sometimes  comes  to  men, 
particularly  to  those  men  who  have  conquered  the 
brilliant  and  the  beautiful.  Patricia's  cry  was  like 
that  of  a  child  seeing  its  toy  broken.  She 
looked  concerned  as  over  the  loss  of  some 
precious  jewel.  So  it  was  unsteadily  and  hurriedly 
he  replied : 

"Never  mind,  I've  got  another  upstairs,"  almost 
as  he  might  have  said,  as  he  picked  up  a  baby: 
"Let  Daddy  kiss  the  place  and  make  it  well." 

This  new  quality  of  intimacy  remained  after  he 
63 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

had  put  on  his  coat,  as  together  they  ran  through 
the  rain  toward  the  house.  They  had  to  run,  for 
the  rain  was  increasing  in  violence;  they  arrived 
flushed  and  a  little  out  of  breath,  with  shining  eyes 
that  sought  each  other's  as  they  went,  laughing. 
Rodbourne  felt  extraordinarily  young  that  morning 
after  having  felt  so  old.  He  was  exhilarated  by 
some  imperceptible  cause.  The  girl's  charm,  her 
unpowdered  innocence,  defined  themselves  to  him. 
As  they  went  into  the  house,  they  were  silent,  and 
he  was  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  her  nearness.  His 
elbow  touched  hers  as  he  effaced  himself  at  a  door- 
way. The  brief  contact  brought  up  Patricia  to  him 
so  vividly  as  he  had  seen  her  in  ill-fitting  little  black 
frock  the  night  before,  looking  so  small  and  school- 
girlish  with  her  thin,  pretty  arms,  bony  and  red 
at  elbow  and  wrist.  She  affected  him  by  a  sort  of 
freshness,  by  a  lack  of  preparation.  She  seemed  to 
him  white,  and  soft,  and  dewy,  like  a  snowdrop  at 
dawn.  There  was  a  little  coldness  in  this  attrac- 
tion, which  pleased  him,  which  vaguely  challenged 
him  to  mute  it  into  ardor.  Something  so  delicate  to 
hold  and  lead,  something  so  gentle  that  he  vaguely 
felt  he  wanted  together  to  cherish  and  to  bruise. 
But  almost  at  once  the  memory  of  Claire  came  to 
him.  Dear  Claire !  How  lovely  she  looked  the  night 
before.  He  hadn't  been  able  to  go  to  her  that  morn- 
ing because  some  fool  of  a  housemaid  was  polish- 
ing the  parquet  outside  his  door.  He  wanted  to 
see  her.  He  had  several  things  to  tell  her,  and  he 

64 


PATRICIA 

wanted  her  advice  on  something.  And  to  hold  her 
big,  beautiful  hand. 

While  Patricia  watched  him,  not  understanding 
his  faintly  worried  air,  Rodbourne  was  trying  very 
hard  to  resist  something  which  did  not  threaten  him 
yet,  which  must  not  be  allowed  even  to  threaten 
him.  He  was  struggling  against  a  temptation  which 
did  not  quite  exist,  and  in  his  heart  was  crying  out 
to  Claire  to  save  him  from  that  unknown  thing,  to 
protect  him  against  his  own  disloyalty,  just  as  she 
had  saved  him  from  failure  and  protected  him 
against  folly.  He  was  crying  out  for  her,  but,  all 
the  same,  after  a  moment,  terrified  and  moved,  he 
was  compelled  by  a  force  he  could  not  resist  to  turn 
and  take  delight  once  more  in  that  slight  white 
creature,  in  whom  surely  could  lie  no  real  danger  for 
the  man  of  the  world,  especially  for  a  man  of 
honor,  who  had  taken  everything  from  a  woman  and 
owed  her  all  he  had  to  give,  owed  it  to  her  not  only 
in  the  name  of  honor,  but  in  the  name  of  love.  For 
he  did  love  Claire,  he  did. 

It  was  then  that  Patricia  felt  awkward  with  this 
silent  man.  In  her  lifelong  surroundings  it  had  always 
been  the  custom  that  when  people  came  together  they 
must  talk,  never  mind  what  about,  but  talk.  Otherwise 
there  would  be  awkwardness ;  if  you  let  other  people 
think,  they'd  think  you  were  thinking,  and  that  would 
never  do.  So  she  said :  "Isn't  it  awful  about  the  car  ? 
Do  you  really  think  it'll  take  a  fortnight  to  put 

right?    Or  did  Groby  only  say  that  to  be  nasty?" 

65 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"I'm  afraid  he's  right." 

"Then  we  shall  have  to  stick  in  here  all  day." 

"Well,  we  might  go  for  a  walk  and  change  when 
we  got  in,"  said  Rodbourne,  again  feeling  disloyal, 
for  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Headcorn  was  too  stout  and 
Claire  too  catlike  to  go  out  in  the  rain. 

"But  we  shouldn't  get  anywhere,"  said  Patricia 
querulously.  "And  the  links  must  be  turned  into  a 
bog  by  now.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  play 
Patience." 

"No,"  said  Rodbourne.  "Fact  is,  I've  got  some 
news  for  you.  Mrs.  Headcorn,  who  thinks  of  every- 
thing, has  arranged  with  Booker  to  set  out  for  us 
a  game  called  'darts.'  As  patented  by  Cupid. 
Sounds  exciting,"  he  added,  feeling  clumsy. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Patricia.  "You  throw  the 
darts  into  a  mat,  don't  you,  and  whatever  hap- 
pens, I  win  a  pair  of  gloves  ?" 

"You've  got  it  exactly,"  said  Rodbourne,  and 
they  laughed  together  as  they  went  toward  the 
garden  room,  exchanging  feeble  repartee.  They 
were  happy,  for  behind  their  poor  jests  hung  all  the 
time  a  secret  conversation:  "I  like  you.  .  .  ." 
"You're  very  pretty.  .  .  ."  "Do  you  mind  its  being 
wet?  .  .  ."  "Rather  not." 

Indeed,  they  flung  open  the  door  of  the  garden 
room  with  unexpected  violence,  as  it  was  decided 
that  the  first  to  touch  the  mat  got  the  first  throw, 
a  valuable  advantage.  Mrs.  Headcorn  had  left  the 

room,  intending  to  overawe  the  cook,  and  to  fail  as 

66 


PATRICIA 

usual  to  dominate  Booker.  Mrs.  Caldecot  sat  in 
an  armchair,  sometimes  looking  out  into  the  aviary 
at  the  morose  Kitchener,  at  other  times  as  if  by  an 
effort,  reading  a  few  pages  of  the  novel  she  held. 
She  had  a  queer  feeling  of  retraction  as  the  door  was 
flung  open  and  the  two  ran  in,  not  noticing  her, 
made  a  rush  for  the  mat,  upon  which  Patricia  was 
first  allowed  to  lay  a  hand.  They  looked  so  light, 
running  like  that,  laughing;  she  sprawling  in  an 
armchair,  felt  so  heavy.  As  if  she'd  got  a  cap  on. 

"Oh,"  cried  Rodbourne,  noticing  her  first,  "good 
morning.  Please  forgive  me  not  noticing  you;  we 
were  rushing  for  that  mat.  Miss  Neale  has  chal- 
lenged me,  and  my  mind  was  filled  with  it." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  only  smiled;  she  could  not  help 
feeling  that  Rodbourne  was  making  conversation, 
excusing  himself  overmuch.  Indeed,  he  went  on 
awkwardly:  **Well,  Miss  Neale,  you  start.  I'm 
afraid  it's  a  tame  sort  of  game." 

"Wait  and  see,"  cried  Patricia,  with  sudden 
brilliance,  "whether  I  give  you  a  tame  sort  of  game." 

For  some  time  Mrs.  Caldecot  watched  the  two, 
smiling  at  the  childish  game,  and  feeling  rather  out 
of  it.  She  didn't  say  anything  during  Patricia's 
atrocious  exhibition  of  marksmanship,  and  so  felt 
unable  to  comment  on  Rodbourne's  performance. 
At  the  third  round,  she  felt  extraordinarily  self- 
conscious,  and  forced  herself  to  say  something. 
Thus  she  found  herself  applauding  or  deprecating 

every  shot,  feeling  herself  every  time  more  unneces- 

67 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

sary  and  irrelevant,  knowing  that  she  was  savin rr 
silly  things  and  not  being  able  to  stop,  as  if  some- 
thing had  got  loose  in  her  mind.  They  did  not 
take  much  notice  of  her,  for  chance  made  it  a  very 
close  game  and  so  Mrs.  Caldecot  had  to  watch  them, 
the  man  handsome  as  ever,  the  girl  newly  radiant. 
It  was  then  that  Bob,  who  was  short  of  darts, 
looked  about  the  floor,  and  Mrs.  Caldecot,  at  whose 
feet  one  had  rolled  after  rebounding  from  the  floor, 
bent  down  to  pick  it  up;  the  novel,  unregarded, 
slipped  off  her  knees.  As  she  handed  the  dart  to 
Rodbourne,  for  a  second  their  fingers  touched.  He 
smiled  into  her  eyes  with  an  air  of  good  understand- 
ing, but  he  upset  her,  for  he  did  not  take  the  oppor- 
tunity to  press  her  fingers.  He  who  had  not  kissed 
her,  seen  her,  that  day !  Hating  herself,  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot realized  that  he  could  have  done  it,  for  Patricia 
was  bending  down,  collecting  darts  for  herself.  It 
lasted  only  a  second,  but  Rodbourne  must  have  been 
vaguely  conscious  of  disturbance,  for  now,  as  he 
played,  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Caldecot  and  made  com- 
ments on  his  play,  while  she  listened  in  silence.  She 
could  not  help  feeling  that  Bob  was  trying  to  drag 
her  into  a  relationship  where  she  had  no  place.  That 
was  awful.  Bob  was  trying  to  give  her  a  show,  but 
he  couldn't  do  it.  Then  her  pride  revolted :  let  him  do 
what  he  liked  after  all.  And,  anyhow,  she  couldn't 
bear  it  any  more.  So,  in  a  voice  made  false  by  j  aunti- 
ness,  she  said :  "Well,  I  think  I'll  leave  you  children 

to  your  violent  sports,"  and  left  the  room. 

68 


PATRICIA 

The  two  went  on  for  a  little  while.  The  hundred 
up  was  approaching  its  conclusion,  for  Rodbourne 
had  scored  eighty-two  to  Patricia's  seventy-six. 
They  stopped  for  a  moment  before  the  last  round, 
and  Bob,  conscious  of  the  disturbance  he  experi- 
enced through  Mrs.  Caldecot's  retreat,  found  him- 
self needing  small  talk : 

"Now  for  the  grand  excitement,  Miss  Neale. 
You're  twenty-four  down,  but  you  can  do  it  if  you 
get  five  flukes." 

"You're  a  judge  of  flukes,"  replied  Patricia, 
"judging  from  your  practicing  this  in  London." 

Patricia  had  not  thrown  the  dart,  but  stood  look- 
ing at  him  seriously :  "Oh,  no,  I'll  be  much  too  busy. 
It's  not  like  being  at  home." 

"Ah  yes,"  said  Rodbourne,  feeling  a  little  uneasy 
because  he  found  pleasure  in  this  idea,  "you're  going 
to  be  in  town  now.  You  didn't  tell  me  where  your 
mother  had  taken  a  house?" 

"In  Old  Quebec  Street.  Such  a  dear  little  house, 
with  a  mews  at  the  back.  It  will  be  like  home  hear- 
ing the  horses  kick." 

He  laughed :  "But  you're  not  coming  to  town  to 
hear  horses  kick.  You'll  have  a  lovely  time,  won't 
you?" 

"Rather.  Mamma  expects  to  be  in  town  about 
eight  months  of  the  year.  And,  do  you  know,  next 
week,  I'm  going  to  a  first  night." 

"The  first  of  your  first  nights,"  said  Rodbourne 
with  sham  solemnity.  "Isn't  it  dreadful  to  think 

69 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

that  you  may  come  to  look  forward  to  the  last  of 
your  last  nights?" 

"I  don't  understand,  Mr.  Rodbourne.  You're 
much  too  clever.  But  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  get  used 
to  that  in  London  where  everybody's  so  clever.  You 
know,"  she  hesitated,  "I  do  feel  rather  shy  about  it. 
At  home,  well,  I  knew  just  what  to  say  to  the  people 
who  lived  around  about.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  talked  to  them  about  each 
other,  to  the  vicar  about  the  harvest  festival  or 
Christmas  music,  according  to  the  season,  to  the 
gardener  about  bulbs  or  chrysanthemums,  again 
according  to  the  season." 

"Exactly.  And  now  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
talk  about  the  opera,  and  the  latest  microbe.  Oh, 
I'm  so  frightened." 

'TDon't  be,"  replied  the  man  with  affectionate 
indulgence.  "We're  only  shop  fronts  with  no  stock 
behind.  Do  just  as  you  do  in  Devonshire.  Talk 
to  the  women  about  other  women  and  talk  to  the 
men  about  themselves." 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  She  had  a  frown 
between  her  childish  brows,  and  Rodbourne  felt  im- 
mensely tender  toward  her,  a  little  sorry,  as  if  he 
could  not  bear  that  she  should  find  even  a  trifling 
difficulty  among  her  pleasures.  While  this  mood  was 
upon  him,  Patricia  remarked :  "Oh,  well,"  and  with 
languid  hand,  flung  a  dart  nearly  a  yard  wide  from 
its  object.  With  a  little  cry  of  petulance,  she  bent 

down,  picked  up  a  dart,  and,  as  she  stepped  back, 

70 


PATRICIA 

put  her  foot  upon  another.  The  round  object  gave 
way  on  the  polished  floor;  she  exclaimed  and  fell 
back,  instinctively  Rodbourne's  arm  went  out, 
caught  her  and  drew  her  up.  Then,  as  for  the  first 
time  he  felt  her  in  his  arms,  warm,  supple,  and  aban- 
doned against  him  by  the  fact  of  her  attitude,  with- 
out intention,  as  if  responding  to  some  imperious 
intimate  call,  he  flung  about  her  the  other  arm  and 
drew  her  all  against  him.  Patricia  so  stood,  em- 
braced and  bewildered,  her  arms  hanging  laxly,  eyes 
closed  and  head  thrown  back,  experiencing  in  a  sort 
of  terrified  delight  the  brief  harsh  contact  of  the 
man  who  held  her.  She  was  conscious  neither  of 
withdrawal  nor  desire;  in  that  moment  she  was 
caught  up  and  mastered,  less  by  assault  than  by 
self -surrender.  Then  the  second  in  which  so  much 
emotion  congregated  was  forgotten,  for  now  as  he 
held  her  to  him,  Rodbourne  saw  Patricia  as  he  had 
never  seen  her  before.  The  delicacy  was  still  there. 
He  could  mark  the  veined  eyelids,  the  unformed  con- 
tour of  the  cheek,  and,  so  close,  the  small  parted 
mouth  seemed  redder,  the  inner  flesh  of  the  down- 
curling  lower  lip  was  so  vivid  as  to  transmute  into 
animalism  a  feeling  that  had  been  compounded  of 
asstheticism  and  romance.  Without  any  hesitation, 
captured  and  all  bonds  forgotten,  he  bent  down 
toward  the  beautiful  lure  of  that  submitted  mouth. 
Outside  the  door  of  the  garden  room,  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  had  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  didn't  want  to 
go  back  and  disturb  them  at  their  game,  their 
6  71 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

game,  not  hers.  But  she  had  failed  to  find  Mrs. 
Headcorn  and  in  the  drawing-room  were  no  books 
except  collected  editions  locked  up  in  a  cabinet.  So 
she  wanted  the  novel  she  had  so  carelessly  been  read- 
ing in  the  garden  room.  She  remembered  that  it 
had  fallen  off  her  lap  as  she  bent  down  to  pick  up  a 
dart.  She'd  better  fetch  it.  And  when  she  hesi- 
tated she  chid  herself.  After  all,  why  shouldn't  she 
go  in.  But  her  hesitation  was  still  enough  to  cause 
her  to  turn  so  slowly  the  handle  of  the  door  that  it 
made  no  sound. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway, 
confronted  with  those  two.  At  last,  and  it  seemed 
a  long  time,  she  realized  purely  in  knowledge  and 
not  yet  in  pain  that  this  thing  which  she  had  sus- 
pected before  it  came  to  be  now  indeed  was,  that 
the  two  had  succumbed  to  the  inevitable  response  of 
their  youth,  to  the  temptation  of  the  future.  She 
perceived  this  without  putting  it  into  words.  It  was 
to  her  something  that  had  happened,  that  was  hap- 
pening. And  she  so  stood,  silent  and  unobserved, 
unable  to  move,  to  desire  movement,  compelled  by 
extraordinary  weakness  to  witness  the  sudden  death 
of  her  happiness,  the  end  of  her  security.  It  was 
then  that  Rodbourne  purposefully  bent  down  to 
touch  Patricia's  lips  with  his.  The  finality  of  this 
act  unleashed  in  Mrs.  Caldecot  a  sense  of  propriety. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
this,  as  that  she  must  not  see  it,  that  it  was  some- 
thing no  longer  hers,  upon  which  all  that  was 

72 


PATRICIA 

straight  and  proud  forbade  her  to  spy.  So,  quickly, 
as  if  she  were  fleeing,  Mrs.  Caldecot  pulled  the  door 
to  and,  without  shutting  it  quite,  hurriedly  went 
away. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Rodbourne  raised  his 
head  from  the  lips  where  he  drank  an  elixir  the 
headiness  of  which  intoxicated  him,  caused  a  whirl 
in  his  brain,  made  his  temples  beat.  Patricia  had 
not  resisted  him,  nor  responded,  but  still  lay  in  his 
arms,  abandoned  and  limp.  And  this  enhanced  his 
delight  in  her.  He  wanted  her  entirely,  wanted  more 
of  her,  all  of  her,  to  be  familiar  with  that  smooth 
skin,  the  curling  rosy  ears,  the  cleft  chin,  to  slake 
his  thirst  of  her,  of  all  this  freshness  and  this  grace. 
So,  more  ardent  now,  less  timid  than  at  the  first 
caress,  he  covered  her  cheeks,  her  neck  with  violent 
kisses,  returning  again  and  again  to  those  mute, 
submissive  lips,  as  if  their  contact  inflamed  rather 
than  allayed  his  desire. 

He  let  her  go  quite  suddenly,  not  knowing  why. 
Perhaps  the  silent  cry  from  Mrs.  Caldecot's  tor- 
tured spirit,  as  she  hurried  away,  had  created  some 
echo  within  him.  In  the  midst  of  the  joy  which 
still  about  him  hung  its  banners,  he  was  conscious 
of  immense  awkwardness.  He  stood  back,  hands 
outspread,  wanting  to  recapture  Patricia  into  his 
clasp,  and  yet  holding  back.  She  stood  before  him 
now,  her  eyes  open  and  in  them  a  complex  expres- 
sion, fear,  a  bewildered  delight,  surprise  at  his  onset, 
and  surprise  at  finding  herself  released.  She  was 

73 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

panting  a  little,  and  was  so  tossed  by  her  emotions 
that  she  desired  then  only  the  comfort  of  his  arms 
about  her,  not  called  by  desire,  but  needing  protec- 
tion. Rodbourne,  manlike,  made  an  end  of  this  ten- 
sity by  seizing  both  her  hands.  They  were  very 
cold  and  lay  in  his,  passive,  as  if  already  she  said : 
"What  is  your  will?  What  do  you  wish  of  me?" 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say ;  he  wanted  to  find  for 
her  a  way  out  of  his  immense  confusion. 

Hoarsely,  he  said :  "You  didn't  mind  ?  I  couldn't 
help  it.  You're  so  lovely." 

She  did  not  reply ;  she  showed  no  anger,  but  only 
still  that  surprise  at  being  captured  and  released. 
The  contact  of  his  hands  half-reassured  her.  She 
would  have  been  content  to  stand  so  with  him  for  a 
very  long  time.  But  the  intimacy,  which  stilled  the 
girl,  fired  the  man.  Now  he  had  to  play  with  those 
slender  reddened  fingers,  to  draw  them  apart  and 
crush  them  close,  to  caress  and  to  hurt  them.  The 
intimacy  of  the  slight  contact  made  him  desire  a 
more  profound  one.  Again  he  took  her  into  his 
arms  to  kiss  her  neck,  her  hair,  forehead,  eyes,  to 
experience  the  indescribable  delight  of  the  contact 
of  smooth,  burning  cheek.  And  once  again  he  sought 
the  lips  that  trembled  and  surrendered. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  I  did  the  first 
time  I  met  you  at  that  show  in  London  six  months 
ago  .  .  .  but  I  didn't  know  how  much."  He 
stopped.  He  tried  to  find  something  else  to  say. 
Something  tender  and  dominant,  but  the  words 

74 


PATRICIA 

would  not  come.  The  repeated  sensation  had  not 
been  so  violent  as  the  first,  and,  in  the  tempo- 
rary satiation  of  his  senses,  clarity  overcame  his 
brain.  He  let  her  go  suddenly  and  stood  back. 

It  was  only  then  that  Patricia  spoke.  She  looked 
at  him  with  frightened,  adoring  eyes.  Why  didn't 
he  speak?  What  was  the  matter  that  he  should 
stand  like  that?  And  stand  apart?  She  felt  so 
horribly  lonely,  for  now  she  knew  that  this  man 
had  broken  all  the  links  which  bound  her  to  the  rest 
of  mankind  by  forging  the  link  which  now  bound 
her  to  him.  An  expression  came  into  his  face  which 
she  recognized  as  worry,  and,  already  maternal, 
unable  to  bear  that  something  should  trouble  him, 
she  threw  aside  her  reserve,  stepped  toward  him, 
and  whispered,  "What's  the  matter?" 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  at  last: 
"I  couldn't  help  it." 

He  looked  so  unhappy  that  Patricia  forced  her- 
self to  say,  though  she  blushed  and  looked  away, 
"I'm  not  angry." 

He  heard  her  in  exquisite  agony,  and  he  had  to 
collect  all  his  energy  to  resist  this  adorable  thing 
which  offered  itself.  Disloyel !  Damnation,  let  him 
be  disloyal  and  have  his  minute.  But  he  couldn't. 
He  felt  enmeshed  and  knew  that  he  had  cast  another 
net  across  one  in  which  he  had  struggled  for  eight 
years.  So,  almost  roughly,  he  said:  "I  oughtn't 
to  have  done  that.  I'm  sorry." 

Patricia  stared  at  him.    This  regret  coming  from 
75 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

him  after  such  caresses  outraged  her  feminine  pride. 
Sorry !  How  dare  he !  For  Patricia  in  a  few  sec- 
onds had  become  a  woman;  at  her  lover's  fire  lit 
her  own  beacon.  But  her  angry  retort  was  stopped 
by  the  misery  in  his  face.  Rodbourne,  harried  by 
conflict,  looked  old,  which  to  Patricia  was  terrible, 
and  now  became  appealing.  So,  with  trembling  lips, 
she  replied,  "But  why  did  you  kiss  me  then?" 

He  did  not  reply.  He  could  hear  that  trembling 
whisper,  the  protest  of  the  woman  who  loves  against 
an  intellectual,  a  moral  impulse  which  has  nothing 
to  do  with  love,  which  deflects  foolish  man  and  means 
nothing  to  loving  woman.  He  knew  that  she  loved 
him,  and  terror  and  delight  fastened  upon  him. 
Still  the  girl  watched  him.  She  was  past  humilia- 
tion, did  not  care  now,  if  only  he  loved  her,  if  only 
He'd  tell  her  so,  if  only  he'd  let  her  cast  herself  at 
his  feet  and  kiss  his  hand.  Oh,  she  knew  it  oughtn't 
to  be  like  that,  that  he  ought  to  be  fervent,  and 
exalted,  as  she  was  ready  to  be,  but  it  didn't  matter. 
She  loved  him  too  much,  had  unconsciously  loved 
him  too  long  to  trouble  with  such  trifles.  So,  with- 
out any  pride,  Patricia  said,  "Don't  you  care  for 
me  at  all?" 

With  an  exclamation,  Rodbourne  fixed  his  teeth 
into  his  under  lip.  His  hand  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
seize  her.  Then,  as  if  to  protect  himself  against  his 
own  desire,  he  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and 
turned  his  head  away,  replying :  "Oh,my  God,  Pat,  I 

.  .  .  Don't  let  me  say  it.  I  can't  bear  it.  I  mustn't." 

76 


PATRICIA 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Patricia. 

He  looked  down  to  the  floor,  as  he  said  in  a  dull, 
new  voice  that  frightened  her,  "I  can't  explain." 
And  he  wandered  away  toward  the  mat  into  which, 
as  if  this  relieved  him,  he  savagely  drove  a  loose 
dart.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  round  at  the  little, 
weary  features  which  a  moment  before  had  glowed 
under  his  caresses. 

After  closing  the  door  on  the  fulfillment  of  her 
fears,  Mrs.  Caldecot,  unconscious  of  direction,  had 
walked  through  the  drawing-room,  stopping  only 
when  she  found  herself  facing  the  wall.  Then,  as 
if  ill-aware  of  this  obstacle,  she  went  toward  the 
right  until  she  came  to  the  door  of  the  hall.  She 
went  right  on  to  the  front  door,  opening  this,  as  if 
then  all  her  energies  were  rallied  to  produce  move- 
ment. She  knew  only  one  thing  clearly — this,  that 
she  wanted  to  get  away  to  any  place,  and  there 
mixed  with  this  a  curious  loneliness,  she  wanted  May 
Headcorn  badly,  oh,  not  to  tell  her,  anything,  for 
she  hardly  knew  how  she  could  tell  it  if  she  wanted 
to,  but  just  to  lay  her  head  upon  that  big,  kind 
breast.  She  would  have  gone  out  if,  as  she  opened 
the  door,  the  wind,  which  blew  straight  in,  had  not 
sprayed  her  face  with  a  stinging  shower.  She  drew 
back  disgusted,  for  she  hated  the  wet,  hated  to  soil 
herself.  It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Caldecot  that 
as  soon  as  she  shut  the  door  she  instinctively  turned 
to  the  hall  mirror  to  readjust  a  strand  of  hair  and 
delicately  to  touch  with  a  handkerchief  the  wet  drops 

77 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

on  her  powdered  cheeks.  Then,  as  if  her  aimless- 
ness  had  been  given  a  direction,  she  went  to  the  log 
fire  which  burned  in  the  hall  and  sat  down  in  an  arm- 
chair, looking  down  upon  the  glossy  heap  that 
Chang  and  Suki,  heads  pillowed  on  flanks,  made 
upon  the  rug. 

Little  by  little  a  clearer  consciousness  came  to 
her.  So  what  she'd  expected  had  happened.  How 
quickly  it  had  come !  And  yet  she  had  seen  it  before 
it  came,  known  it  before  they  knew  it  themselves, 
known  it,  no  doubt,  because  it  was  inevitable,  because 
if  not  now,  then  later,  Rodbourne  would  no  longer 
be  able  to  array  their  eight  years  of  love,  of  common 
interest,  of  tender  habit  against  the  natural  polyg- 
amy of  man ;  against  the  attraction  of  bright  eyes, 
new  eyes.  She  was  almost  resigned.  Years  ago 
she  had  accepted  a  bill  drawn  by  the  future  on  the 
bank  of  her  emotions,  and  she  had  always  known 
that,  though  it  might  be  renewed,  ultimately  it  must 
be  presented.  "It  had  to  be,"  she  said,  aloud.  But, 
as  she  said  this,  as  she  confessed  that  it  had  to  be, 
she  reacted  and  told  herself  that  it  ought  not  to  be. 
A  deceptive  hope  even  tried  to  suggest  that  per- 
haps this  was  not  true,  that  she'd  made  a  mistake. 
She  remembered  that  a  friend  had  once  told  her 
that  on  discovering  her  daughter  in  such  an  atti- 
tude, the  girl  excused  herself  by  saying  that  the 
man  was  removing  a  speck  of  dust  from  her  eye. 
Mrs.  Caldecot  had  enough  sense  of  humor  to  smile, 

enough  vitality  and  skepticism.     Her  smile  faded 

78 


PATRICIA 

as  she  realized  what  this  meant.  Oh,  it  wasn't  that 
Bob  loved  her  no  more ;  the  last  years,  even  the  last 
weeks  had  been  no  comedy;  she  knew  him  and  he 
loved  her,  still  loved  her.  But  he  was  used  to  her ; 
she  was  his  happiness,  not  his  romance.  And  any- 
how, how  much  longer  could  she  have  held  him  ?  She, 
a  still  beautiful  but  aging  woman?  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
as  she  realized  this,  as  she  had  a  hurried  glimpse  of 
the  remainder  of  her  life,  growing  in  loneliness,  felt 
an  intolerable  pang  of  self-pity.  She  wanted  the 
reassurance  of  some  human  being,  and  was  alone, 
would  always  be  alone.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes, 
slight  tears,  little  more  than  a  mist,  and  in  this 
weakness  she  bent  down  to  stroke  the  silky  head  of 
Suki.  Suki  raised  her  head,  displeased  at  being  dis- 
turbed, but  Mrs.  Caldecot  needed  her,  and  slid  a 
hand  between  the  warm,  close-pressed  bodies,  and 
lifted  her  out,  while  Chang  growled  in  his  sleep,  and 
Suki,  disturbed,  eyes  astare,  gave  a  little  whine  of 
irritation.  For  a  moment  Mrs.  Caldecot  held  the 
little  dog  close,  her  lips  pressed  against  the  smooth 
hair  that  smelt  clean  and  aromatic.  Suki  comforted 
her  a  little,  so  warm  with  sleep,  round  and  languid. 
That  mist  of  tears  gained  upon  her  eyelids.  A 
single  drop  gathered  upon  the  woman's  eyelid  and 
slowly  rolled  down  upon  the  cool,  shaggy  ear.  Held 
erect  and  uncomfortable,  Suki  wriggled,  turned  in 
Mrs.  Caldecot's  grasp,  and  licked  her  cheek. 

She  dropped  the  dog  suddenly,  forgetting  it,  fac- 
ing only  her  misery.     For  some  moments  she  was 

79 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

conscious  only  of  that  immense  wretchedness.  Then 
she  had  a  moment  of  revolt.  With  eyes  now  bright 
and  gleaming,  she  told  herself  that  she  wouldn't 
be  cast  away  like  this,  discarded  when  she  had 
served  her  purpose  as  a  tonic,  a  restorer.  She 
wouldn't  give  in.  She'd  have  it  out.  She'd  con- 
front him  with  all  that  he  owed  her,  all  that  she'd 
given  him.  And  more  tenderly  she  thought,  "I'll 
make  him  understand  that  this  is  only  a  passing 
fancy,  that  it's  just  a  girl  tempting  him  who  can't 
give  him  what  I  can ;  I'll  make  him  understand  that 
he  loves  me,  that  he  can't  do  without  me."  But 
again  that  other  fear  came  to  weaken  her  purpose : 
perhaps  this  time  she  couldn't  break  the  slender 
link  so  swiftly  formed,  recapture  him,  enjoy  him.  .  .  . 
and  then?  If  it  weren't  Patricia,  wouldn't  it  be 
somebody  else  soon?  Wouldn't  youth  still  call  to 
him  ?  Wouldn't  it  call  still  louder  as  he  grew  older  ? 
She'd  have  to  fight  again  and  go  through  this  again, 
and  live  in  daily  terror,  expecting  a  new  struggle 
and  be  beaten  in  the  end.  She  could  contest  in  love, 
in  wit,  in  charm,  but  she  must  be  beaten  in  age,  by 
her  age,  and  by  his  age  as  more  and  more  he  desired 
the  thrilling  neighborhood  of  youth.  Aloud  she 
said:  "It's  no  good,"  and  asked  herself  what  she 
should  do.  Just  say  nothing  and  go  away,  leaving 
him  free?  Yes,  she  could  do  that,  and  things  would 
take  their  course.  But  what  would  Bob  think? 
what  would  he  do  ?  He  wouldn't  know  that  she  had 
seen,  and  he  wouldn't  understand.  She  knew  that 

80 


PATRICIA 

he  was  a  man  in  honorable  bondage,  that  he  was  hers 
because  he  was  a  straight  man  still  more  than  be- 
cause he  was  her  lover.  He  would  do  nothing,  say 
nothing,  he  would  break  the  girl's  heart  if  he  needed 
to,  and  would  remain  hers  in  speech  and  deed  if  not 
in  thought.  For  a  moment  Mrs.  Caldecot  asked  her- 
self:  "Why  not?  Why  smash  such  happiness  as  I 
can  get  out  of  him  just  for  an  idea?  Perhaps  I  can 
still  make  him  happy."  Her  pride  revolted.  No, 
not  on  those  terms,  not  after  what  she  had  had. 
Loyalty  after  love.  .  .  .  fingerbowls  after  dinner. 
"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  she  thought,  "give 
him  up  properly,  straightly,  quickly."  She  remem- 
bered an  old  gibe  at  the  Whigs  and  bowlerized  it: 
as  with  firm  step  she  crossed  the  drawing-room,  as 
she  seized  the  handle  of  the  door  leading  to  that 
stage  where  she  must  play  a  necessary  part,  Mrs. 
Caldecot  said,  "I  won  him  like  a  woman  and  I'll 
lose  him  like  a  lady." 

She  entered  the  garden  room  where  Rodbourne, 
face  to  the  target,  was,  for  the  tenth  time  perhaps, 
pulling  out  and  digging  in  a  dart,  as  if  this  mechan- 
ical exercise  relieved  him,  or  at  least  as  if  it  served 
him  as  an  excuse  not  to  turn  toward  the  girl,  who 
with  downcast  eyes  and  clasped  hands  was  con- 
fronting miserably  something  she  could  not  under- 
stand. Mrs.  Caldecot  had  not  been  afraid  to  find 
them  in  each  other's  arms.  She  had  made  enough 
noise  with  the  door  handle,  but  she  was  quite  pre- 
pared, now  armed  with  full  courage,  to  face  them 

81 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

as  she  found  them.  Their  attitude  surprised  her  a 
little.  She  did  not  understand  why  nothing  showed 
of  their  relationship,  why  they  made  no  attempt  to 
affect  innocence.  This  made  it  more  difficult  for 
her  to  be  as  airy  as  she  had  intended.  Her  voice 
trembled  a  little  as  she  said,  "What!  tired  of  the 
game  already?" 

She  paused,  and  Rodbourne,  without  turning 
from  the  mat,  said  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "We've 
finished." 

"Who  won?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  cheerfully, 
turning  to  Patricia.  The  girl  looked  at  her  with 
frightened  eyes,  and  Mrs.  Caldecot,  without  trying 
to  understand,  determined  only  to  make  an  end  of 
this  tensity,  added:  "You  look  very  humble,  Miss 
Neale.  I'm  afraid  he  beat  you." 

Then  Rodbourne  turned  around,  and  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot was  shocked  by  his  drawn  features.  A  stranger 
would  not  have  noticed  them,  for  emotion  makes  but 
slight  marks  on  men  of  breed,  but  Mrs.  Caldecot 
knew  his  face  so  well,  every  little  curve  and  surface 
and  various  tint  of  it.  He  terrified  her.  How  much 
he  must  love  the  girl  to  look  like  that!  And  yet, 
in  a  fairly  even  voice,  he  managed  to  say,  "I  was 
just  going  to  give  her  her  revenge." 

They  both  looked  toward  Patricia ;  she  stared  at 
them  in  turn,  as  if  a  faint  suspicion  came  to  her 
that  she  stood  alone,  and  that  between  these  two 
was  some  sort  of  understanding  in  which  she  had  no 

share.     She  could  not  have  defined  the  feeling,  but 

82 


PATRICIA 

it  was  that,  and  it  translated  itself  in  a  desire  to 
get  away  to  a  place  where  there  were  no  stresses  and 
no  problems. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot. 
"I  only  came  in  to  get  that  silly  novel  which  I  left 
here,  while  you  indulged  in  manly  sports.  Where 
is  it?  Oh,  yes,  there  on  the  floor.  I  let  it  slide. 
Go  on  with  the  game ;  I  like  watching." 

Patricia  did  not  reply  to  her,  but  said  to  Rod- 
bourne  :  "I  hope  you  don't  mind,  but  I  don't  think 
I'll  play  any  more.  Not  just  now.  I've  got  rather 
a  headache.  I  think  I'll  go  upstairs." 

Some  expression  in  Mrs.  Caldecot's  eyes  must 
have  told  Rodbourne  that  she  knew  or  guessed,  and 
manlike,  he  tried  to  avoid  a  scene:  "Oh,  Miss 
Neale,"  he  said.  "I'm  so  sorry.  Can't  I  get  you  a 
glass  of  water  or  something?"  and  tried  to  follow 
her. 

But  as  Patricia  passed  out,  and  before  Rodbourne 
reached  the  door,  Mrs.  Caldecot,  in  a  quiet,  even 
voice  said :  "Wait  a  minute,  Bob.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  something." 


83 


CHAPTER  V 

ENDINGS 

K)DBOURNE  turned  suddenly  as  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  called  him.  She  had  spoken  gently,  yet 
there  was  in  her  voice  a  flick  that  was  new  to  him. 
Something  imperative.  So,  very  slowly,  he  closed 
the  door  behind  Patricia.  He  remained  looking  at 
Mrs.  Caldecot,  and  holding  the  handle,  as  if  he  sug- 
gested by  this  attitude  that  he  was  indeed  going  but 
had  stopped  to  reply  to  some  trifling  question  about 
the  car  or  the  hour  of  lunch.  She  embarrassed  him, 
for  she  had  turned  away.  Still  holding  the  novel  in 
her  hands,  she  was  methodically  pleating  the  fly- 
leaf into  the  shape  of  an  accordion.  Her  silence,  the 
automatism  of  her  movement  troubled  him.  Now 
that  she  must  say  something  she  found  difficulty, 
and  in  this  state  of  emotional  disturbance  he  had  to 
connect  that  significant  air  with  the  revolutionary 
stimuli  of  the  morning.  He  could  not  think  that 
she  knew  what  was  passing  between  Patricia  and 
himself,  for  how  could  she  know?  But  she  might 
guess.  He  was  uneasy  as  are  all  men  before  that 
reputedly  uncanny  intuition  of  women.  He  knew 

little  enough  about  women  to  believe  that  they  had 

84 


ENDINGS 

some  special  sense ;  he  did  not  know  that  this  alleged 
sense  was  merely  accumulated  observation  of  little 
facts,  which  men  neglect.  So  he  was  afraid,  and 
because  he  was  afraid  he  had  to  speak:  "Yes? 
What  is  it?"  She  did  not  reply,  and  her  fingers 
went  on  with  painful  intentness,  pleating  the  flyleaf 
into  smaller  and  smaller  folds.  He  could  find  in  her 
features  no  elucidation.  She  seemed  quite  calm, 
eyelids  downcast,  no  tremor  in  her  mouth.  But  her 
immobility  was  oppressive,  and  Rodbourne  already 
was  on  his  defense.  Feeling  guilty,  though  not 
accused,  he  was  trying  to  put  on  the  armor  of  his 
masculine  pride,  to  establish  himself  before  his  own 
conscience  as  the  male  enjoying  his  polygamous 
rights.  He  was  prepared  to  deny  if  he  could  not 
extenuate,  to  bully  if  he  could  not  seduce,  and  above 
all,  to  avoid  a  scene,  to  escape  possible  hysteria.  If 
only  somebody  could  have  come  in,  or  the  telephone 
have  rung.  Then  he  would  have  gained  time. 

At  last  Mrs.  Caldecot  raised  her  eyes,  and  the  ex- 
pression he  saw  there  disturbed  him  horribly.  It 
was  so  gentle,  so  resigned,  as  if  she  stood  at  the 
grave  of  one  beloved,  whom  she  had  not  forgotten 
yet,  but  to  the  loss  of  whom  she  was  now  accus- 
tomed. It  stirred  him.  dreadfully.  This  hand- 
some woman  looked  like  a  sick  child,  with  its  large 
eyes  that  do  not  understand  what  is  the  matter  with 
it.  He  must  have  responded  to  her  mood,  for  sud- 
denly, as  if  forcing  herself,  she  gave  a  poor  little 

smile,  only  with  the  corners   of  her  mouth,   and 

85 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

said:  "Don't  look  so  wretched,  Bob.  It  had  to 
come." 

He  started :  "How  do  you  mean,  it  had  to  come  ? 
What  had  to  come?  I  don't  know  what  you're  talk- 
ing about."  His  perplexity  turned  into  irritation : 
"What's  the  matter,  Claire?  Are  you  going  to 
make  a  scene?  I  shouldn't  mind  if  I'd  done  any- 
thing. Now  what  is  it?  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
go  on  staring  at  me  like  that."  He  felt  ashamed 
and  came  forward,  hands  outstretched:  "Darling, 
what's  the  matter  ?  Dearest !  I  couldn't  come  and 
see  you  this  morning;  there  were  servants  all  over 
the  corridor,  and  when  I  put  my  head  out  at  half- 
past  eight.  .  .  ." 

"Don't,  Bob,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "please  don't 
go  on  like  that.  You'll  make  me  hysterical,  and  I 
want  to  avoid  that.  Please  listen  to  me." 

"Oh,  what  do  you  mean?"  asked  Rodbourne, 
wearily. 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  You  know  quite  well. 
I'm  not  going  for  you.  Why  should  I?  Don't  I 
know  you.  I  know  you're  straight  and  that  you're 
loyal  to  me.  And  I  know  you  only  want  to  be  kind 
to  me.  My  dear,  I  know  all  that.  Aren't  you  the 
only  man  I  ever  loved  ?  But  it's  no  good,  because, 
you  see  ...  I  know." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Rodbourne,  this 
time  without  truculence,  and  looking  away. 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  with  a  sigh,  "don't 

evade  me  like  that.     You  never  have  before.     Be 

86 


ENDINGS 

straight  with  me  as  you  always  have  been.  Do 
you  really  think  that  I  am  such  a  weak,  poor  thing 
that  I  can't  stand  your  telling  me  that  you  love 
Patricia?"  She  had  brought  out  the  last  word 
with  an  effort,  and  was  staring  at  the  shamefaced  fig- 
ure as  if  even  now  she  begged  him  to  say  it  wasn't  true. 
But  after  a  pause  she  had  to  go  on :  "You  see,  you 
don't  reply.  Don't  force  me  to  say  anything  more." 

The  note  of  dismissal  in  her  voice  exasperated  the 
man.  He  might  drop  women,  but  women  must  not 
drop  him.  Instinct  compelled  him  to  struggle  for 
her,  and  so,  following  a  masculine  habit,  he  adopted 
the  cool,  even  tone  which  in  women  arouses  frenzy : 
"My  dear  Claire,  what  ever  is  all  this  nonsense? 
Won't  you  try  to  be  sensible,  just  for  a  moment? 
Won't  you  try  to  be  fair?  You  aren't  being  quite 
fair,  you  know.  Suddenly,  without  any  reason,  you 
tell  me  that  I'm  in  love  with  a  girl,  and  that  I  don't 
care  for  you  any  more.  I  ask  you:  what  have  I 
done?  What  have  I  said ?  Have  I  been  inattentive 
to  you?  Have  I  been  hanging  over  the  back  of 
Miss  Neale's  chair?  For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me 
what  it  is  makes  you  think  that  I  don't  care  for  you 
any  more." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  looked  at  him  tenderly.  She  was 
so  sorry  for  him  on  his  defense.  So  it  was  very 
softly  she  replied:  "Oh,  Bob,  my  dearest,  why  do 
you  try  to  deceive  yourself?  Of  course,  you  care 
for  me,  and  you  always  will ;  you  care  for  me  when 
you  think  of  our  eight  happy  years,  perhaps  your 
7  87 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

eight  happiest  years,  just  as  they  were  mine.  I've 
been  everything  to  you,  and  your  friend,  and  your 
companion  too.  Dear,  of  course  you  care  for  me, 
but  not  as  you  did.  Tell  me  simply  whether  you 
really  believe  that  you  care  for  me  as  you  did,  when 
you  can  still  feel  upon  your  lips  the  kisses  of  that 
fresh  young  mouth  ?" 

Then  at  last  Rodbourne,  startled,  looked  into  her 
eyes :  "Oh  ?  But  how  did  you  .  .  .  ?  You  saw  .  .  . 
that?" 

"Yes.  I  came  in  a  few  moments  ago  to  fetch  this 
book,  and  .  .  .  well,  I  went  away." 

He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  felt  extraordinarily 
ashamed.  Not  so  much  of  what  he  had  done ;  there 
was  no  crime  in  pressing  caresses  upon  a  woman 
who  pleased  him ;  there  was  not  even  exactly  harm 
in  superficial  infidelity,  but  to  be  seen,  to  be  caught. 
Like  a  butcher's  boy  in  an  area.  To  think  that  this 
woman,  who  mattered  so  much  to  him,  should  have 
witnessed  the  first  caress  he  had  given  another 
woman  who  also  mattered  much  to  him  ...  it  was 
soiling  and  beastly.  It  made  them  both  undignified. 
But,  because  he  felt  guilty  in  spite  of  his  masculine 
self-justification,  he  wanted  to  abase  himself:  "I'm 
sorry,  Claire,  only  let  me  explain.  It  wasn't  what 
you  think.  Oh,  I  know  you  think  I'm  in  love  with 
her  and  want  to  marry  her  and  all  that,  but  it  isn't 
true.  You  see,  it  was  an  accident.  She  slipped  on 
a  dart  and  I  caught  her  as  she  fell,  and  there  she 

was,  so  close  that  I  did  it  ...  well,  just  like  that, 

88 


ENDINGS 

as  one  does  at  a  dance,  in  a  car,  without  thinking 
of  it.  Without  it  mattering.  It  was  just  a  moment 
of  madness,  an  accident.  There,  don't  look  at  me 
like  that ;  don't  you  believe  it  was  only  an  accident?" 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  you,  but  you  can't  escape  the 
consequences." 

"Don't  talk  such  nonsense.  If  a  man  were  to 
marry  all  the  women  he  kisses.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "I'm 
not  the  sort  of  woman  who'd  make  a  silly  fuss 
over  a  flirtation.  I've  got  something  of  you  that  a 
hundred  dancing  girls  couldn't  take  from  me,  if 
you  set  them  all  up  separately  in  their  own  flats. 
It  isn't  that.  If  you'd  merely  been  unfaithful  to 
me,  it  wouldn't  have  caused  me  a  moment's  worry. 
But  you  haven't  been  unfaithful  to  me  with  Patri- 
cia: you  only  love  her." 

"I  don't,"  he  cried,  a  little  shrilly,  as  if  trying  to 
convince  himself.  "I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  her 
again.  It's  you  Claire,  only  you,  and  you  know  it." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  at  once  reply.  It  was  so 
good  to  hear  him  say  that.  For  a  moment  she 
was  weak  and  told  herself :  "Perhaps  he's  speaking 
the  truth  after  all.  It's  natural  enough.  If  a 
young  and  pretty  girl  falls  into  the  arms  of  a  man, 
and  if  they've  been  familiar,  and  ragging  together, 
as  they  do  nowadays,  well  of  course  they  kiss ;  it's 
part  of  the  rag.  Why  shouldn't  they,  bless  'em? 
Why  should  I  be  such  a  fool  as  to  smash  up  my 

own  happiness  when  I'm  not  sure?    Would  he  pro- 

89 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

test  so  much  unless  he  cared  for  me?"  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot's  destiny  might  have  been  changed  if  Rodbourne 
had  not  perceived  his  slight  advantage  and  tried  to 
press  it.  "I  love  you,"  he  said.  "You're  the  only 
woman  in  the  world  for  me,  forever." 

His  protest  broke  the  little  thread  that  was  spin- 
ning between  them  to  bind  them  once  more.  For- 
ever? How  could  she  bind  him  forever?  She  still 
had  some  youth  and  much  beauty,  but  was  she  hold- 
ing him?  How  would  she  hold  him  when  those 
things  were  gone?  In  a  sort  of  despair  she  decided 
to  test  him:  "Bob,  if  I  said  to  you  now:  'we  love 
each  other ;  we  know  each  other  very  well ;  we  know 
just  what  we  can  give  each  other;  we've  been  very 
much  to  each  other  and  we  still  are ;  we  know  that 
we  can  together  pass  the  rest  of  our  lives.  Well, 
let's  drop  this  secrecy.  Let's  have  done  with  all  this 
hiding.  Let's  go  abroad,  you  and  I,  and  live  to- 
gether happily  the  rest  of  our  days.* ' 

For  a  moment  Rodbourne  did  not  reply.  Then: 
"Well  ...  all  right.  If  you'd  like  to.  I'd  love 
to,  you  know  that.  Only  it's  so  difficult  just  now. 
We've  got  to  remember  that  I'm  in  Parliament  and 
that  I'm  committed  to.  .  .  ." 

For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Caldecot  laughed.  He 
loved  her  laugh,  that  was  high  and  clear,  but  to-day 
a  note  of  agony  ran  through  it  and  hurt  him.  She 
must  have  felt  that,  for  she  stopped:  "Don't  be 
angry  at  my  laughing.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I 
know  all  about  that ;  I  know  I'd  make  you  happy  in 

90 


ENDINGS 

a  way,  and  you  know  it  too.  And  still,  you  haven't 
said  'yes.'  While  eight  years  ago,  don't  you  remem- 
ber that  for  three  months,  every  day,  I  had  to  fight 
you  to  prevent  you  resigning  your  seat?  To  pre- 
vent you  from  packing  me  up  in  a  crate,  as  you 
used  to  say,  and  shipping  me  to  Italy.  Don't  you 
remember  that  you  didn't  get  me  until  you  prom- 
ised that  you  wouldn't  smash  everything  up?" 

"I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  It  was  I  who  kept  you  in 
Parliament;  it  was  I  who  compelled  you  to  keep 
things  quiet,  and  you  were  kicking  and  chafing 
against  it.  In  those  days,  my  dearest,  you  wanted 
only  me.  You  didn't  want  fame  or  a  career  or 
anything.  You  were  mad.  You  wanted  only  me." 

Rodbourne  did  not  reply  at  once.  His  eyes  were 
tender  as  he  remembered  those  days  of  mad  music 
and  strong  wine.  It  seemed  so  long  ago,  and  he  felt 
small  before  this  lovely,  beloved  woman,  by  cir- 
cumstance transformed  into  his  accuser.  "You 
make  me  ashamed,"  he  said. 

"Don't  say  that,  my  dearest,  I  can't  bear  it. 
After  all,  what  is  it  that  I've  always  wanted  for 
you?  That  you  should  be  free  and  proud  and 
strong.  Oh,  I'm  not  lecturing  you,  but  you  know 
I  don't  want  those  silly  little  things  that  people  call 
proper  pride  and  decency  to  come  between  us,  and 
that  sort  of  nonsense." 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  I've  done  wrong,"  he  replied, 
in  a  tired  voice. 

91 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"You  haven't.  Of  course,  you've  done  nothing 
wrong.  You  haven't  betrayed  me,  or  lied  to  me 
more  than  any  man  has  to  lie  to  any  woman.  It 
wasn't  your  fault.  The  trap  was  set  before  you 
went  into  it  because  you  had  to  have  what  the  trap 
offered.  It's  not  your  fault  that  you're  young  and 
strong,  that  you  want  to  live,  and  that  women  love 
you.  No  wonder  women  love  you.  I  often  wonder 
how  you  stuck  to  me  so  long." 

"Let  that  alone." 

"All  right,  Bob.  All  I  want  to  say  is  this :  there's 
no  harm  in  your  being  in  love  with  Patricia.  She's 
young,  pretty ;  she's  very  sweet-tempered ;  and  she's 
a  proud,  fine  girl  who'll  make  you  happy.  I  ... 
I  like  her.  I  like  her  very  much.  Oh,  don't  protest. 
I  want  you  to  be  happy ;  you  know  that  quite  well. 
And  there's  nobody  who'll  do  as  much  for  you  as 
Patricia  will.  She'll  believe  in  you  and  help  you 
and  work  for  you  in  the  way  that  women  should 
work,  keep  your  house,  be  a  pretty  hostess,  make 
useful  friends." 

"Damnation !"  exploded  Rodbourne,  "you  talk  as 
if  I  was  getting  a  housekeeper." 

"So  you  are.  You'll  get  a  housekeeper,  a  home- 
keeper,  and  a  heart-keeper.  Men  make  and  women 
keep;  it's  no  use  kicking  against  it.  So  don't  be 
absurd,  and  don't  treat  me  like  a  mean,  jealous 
woman,  whom  you  half  suspect  has  been  spying  on 
you,  and  had  tried  to  hold  on  to  you  whether  you 

like  it  or  not.    And  has  struggled  to  use  your  sense 

92 


ENDINGS 

of  honor  against  your  wish  to  be  free.  Don't  treat 
me  like  that,  as  you  never  did  before.  Do  under- 
stand that  the  only  thing  I  want  is  your  happiness, 
at  any  cost."  She  held  out  her  hand.  "Now,  Bob, 
that's  enough.  Remember  me  kindly  whenever  you 
think  of  me,  and  I  know  that'll  be  often.  Say  good- 
bye to  me  nicely  and  marry  her." 

Rodbourne  did  not  take  her  hand.  He  felt  hor- 
ribly unhappy  while  Mrs.  Caldecot  persisted  in  tear- 
ing up  their  relationship,  tearing  at  it  relentlessly, 
exposing  its  roots,  and  one  by  one  breaking  them 
away  from  the  soil  where  so  long  they  had  flourished. 
Also,  through  his  misery,  ran  a  thin  vein  of  offense, 
so  his  voice  was  cold :  "I  say,  Claire,  it's  very  nice 
of  you  to — how  shall  I  put  it  ? — hand  me  over,  nicely 
labeled  'To  Patricia,  a  present  from  Claire 
Caldecot.' " 

"Don't,  Bob.  Don't  talk  like  that ;  you  hurt  me. 
And  I've  done  nothing  to  make  you  want  to  hurt 
me."  Her  voice  rose  in  anger:  "Don't  speak  like 
that  to  me  just  because  I'm  trying  to  give  you  your 
happiness,  to  give  you  your  freedom.  Don't  turn 
on  me  in  that  awful,  cold  way.  You  look  at  me 
as  if  you  hated  me,  j  ust  because  I  want  you  to  marry 
the  girl  you  want  to  marry." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  about  it  as  if  it  was  all  settled, 
as  if  I'd  gone  behind  your  back  and  proposed  to  the 
girl.  I've  not  said  a  word  about  it.  I  haven't 
asked  her  to  marry  me.  How  do  you  know  she  would 

if  I  were  to?    I've  no  patience  with  you  sometimes. 

93 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

What's  the  good  of  this  scene?  If  I'd  asked  her 
to  marry  me  and  she'd  said  'yes,'  it  would  have  been 
time  enough.  Whereas  now,  if  I  do  as  you  .  .  . 
seem  to  want  me  to  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  don't  be  brutal." 

"Well,  you  do  seem  to  want  me  to,"  replied  the 
man,  exasperated.  "And  if  I  do  it  to  please  you  and 
she  refuses  me,  what  state  shall  we  find  ourselves  in? 
Yes,  if  she  refuses  me.  You  hadn't  thought  of  that, 
had  you?" 

She  thought  him  silly,  but  she  loved  him,  more 
than  ever  before,  as  she  said,  "Bob,  come  here." 
He  drew  a  little  closer:  "Look  me  in  the  eyes  and 
remember  everything  you  can  about  Pat.  The  way 
she's  looked  at  you,  spoken  to  you,  her  color  when 
you've  said  something :  remember  her  as  she  was  in 
your  arms  a  few  moments  ago,  and  remember  if 
she  struggled  and  if  she  refused  you  the  kiss  you 
wanted.  Remember  all  that,  and  then  answer  me 
truthfully:  If  you  went  to  her  now,  this  moment, 
and  asked  her  to  marry  you,  do  you  honestly  believe 
she  would  say  'no'?"  Mrs.  Caldecot  waited  for  a 
reply  which  she  knew  could  be  given  only  in  the 
shape  of  silence.  Then  she  went  on:  "You  see, 
Bob,  you  can't  answer  me.  You  can't  because  you 
don't  want  to  hurt  me.  Don't  be  afraid ;  hurt  me 
all  you  need;  you  can't  help  it.  You  know  quite 
well  she  loves  you,  so  don't  struggle  and  evade  me 
any  more.  I'm  your  best  friend  and  your  dearest 
memory.  Shake  hands,  and  you're  free." 

94 


ENDINGS 

At  this  suggestion  of  freedom,  which  excluded 
him  from  a  relationship  which  had  been  exquisite, 
an  immense  desolation  fell  on  Rodbourne.  Seizing 
both  her  hands,  he  said  in  a  low  intense  voice :  "But 
I  don't  want  to  marry  her.  I  don't  want  my  free- 
dom. I  love  you,  only  you.  Good  heavens  !  Do  you 
think  that  any  other  woman  could  mean  to  me  what 
you  do?  Don't  you  know  that  year  after  year 
I've  only  learned  to  love  you  more,  to  know  you 
more?  When  I've  got  you  in  my  arms,  with  yours 
about  my  neck,  when  I  bury  my  lips  in  your  hair, 
and  close  my  eyes,  to  feel  you  and  to  breathe  you, 
all  your  sweetness  and  your  perfume,  who  do  you 
think  counts  except  you,  just  you?" 

"Is  it  true?"  whispered  Mrs.  Caldecot,  her  eyes 
closed. 

"Of  course,  it's  true."  In  that  moment  Rod- 
bourne  was  sincere.  Holding  Claire  Caldecot  thus, 
his  hands  clasped  in  her  broad  white  forearm,  see- 
ing her  so  close,  feeling  the  passionate  breath  of 
her  nostrils  and  of  her  parted  red  lips,  he  was 
almost  hiding  the  little  white  phantom  in  his  brain. 
For  a  second  he  thought  that  the  phantom  was  gone. 
It  was  true.  Yes,  it  was  true.  Only  this  dear 
woman  in  his  arms  mattered.  But  all  the  same  the 
phantom  would  not  quite  vanish.  As  he  drew  Mrs. 
Caldecot  close  into  his  arms,  the  image  of  Patricia, 
so  slight,  so  pale  when  her  childish  blue  eyes  im- 
plored him,  became  now  more  evident,  holding  out 

little  pitiful  hands,  begging  him  not  to  forget  her. 

95 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

And  he  fought  against  her.  As  if  to  convince  him- 
self that  indeed  he  was  victorious,  that  willingly  he 
could  enslave  himself  again,  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
Mrs.  Caldecot  on  the  cheek.  For  a  moment  she  sub- 
mitted. Eyes  closed,  she  even  pressed  her  cheek 
against  his  lips,  so  that  her  forehead  rested  against 
his.  But  almost  at  once  a  revulsion  overcame  her. 
The  thrill  of  his  contact  ceased  to  affect  her.  It 
was  not  enough.  In  sudden  despair,  which  took 
the  form  of  revolt,  she  pushed  him  away  and  released 
herself. 

"Let  me  go,  Bob.  It's  no  good.  That's  not  how 
you  used  to  kiss  me.  It's  as  if  you  didn't  want  to. 
No,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  know  that's  not  true ;  it's 
as  if  you  wanted  to  want  to,  my  dear,  and  you  can't. 
It's  not  your  fault." 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  roughly. 

''Don't  please.  I  haven't  much  strength  left. 
Don't  struggle  with  me.  Oh,  I  know,  if  you  like, 
you're  stronger  than  me ;  there's  nothing  to  prevent 
you  forcing  me  to  submit.  I  suppose  you  can  even 
manage  to  make  me  enjoy  caresses  I'm  no  longer 
entitled  to  because  there's  somebody  you  love  better 
than  you  love  me.  Please.  Please,  Bob,  let  me  go. 
Let  me  keep  my  self-respect."  Her  voice  was  altered 
by  tears :  "Don't  struggle  with  me.  Let  me  remain 
a  decent  woman.  Oh,  you  don't  understand."  She 
pushed  him  away.  "No,  Bob,  please.  Men  don't 
understand.  If  I  let  you  kiss  me  now,  and  if  I  let 

myself  enjoy  it,  I'll  feel  beastly.     Oh,  don't  make 

96 


ENDINGS 

me  take  pleasure  in  your  caresses ;  it  would  be  as  if 
they  pleased  me  because  they  came  from  a  man, 
instead  of  from  love,  only  love."  Her  knees  bent 
under  her,  for  she  was  worn  to  weakness  by  emotion. 
"Let  me  go."  Half-frightened,  Rodbourne  released 
her,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  breathing  fast. 
Then,  rather  faintly:  "Don't  touch  me  now  and 
don't  say  anything  more.  It's  been  lovely  for  eight 
years,  oh,  always,  always.  You've  given  me  all  the 
happiness  a  man  can  give  a  woman,  all  the  happiness 
I've  ever  known,  and  I  ...  well,  I  tried  to  help 
you  a  little.  I  did  try,  Bob,  and  I  think  I  did." 

"Claire !"  he  cried,  in  a  strange,  hoarse  voice,  for 
now  he  realized  that  this  was  true,  that  the  final 
parting  had  come,  and  he  felt  lonely. 

"Good-bye,  Bob.  Don't  think  about  me  any  more 
now.  Think  of  me  later.  Now  it's  Patricia  who 
counts.  She  can  give  you  what  you  need,  every- 
thing you  need,  my  dear.  What  can  I  give  you 
now  after  all,  except  love?" 

"That's  all  I  want,"  he  replied,  rather  weakly, 
realizing  his  defeat. 

"Well,  so  can  she.  She  can  give  you  love,  oh, 
not  in  the  same  way  as  I  can,  but  she  can  give  you 
all  the  love  you  need  to  bear  you  company  in  the 
coming  years.  And  she'll  bear  you  better  company 
than  I  can,  in  secrecy.  She  can  give  you  love, 
companionship,  the  social  life  which  you  like,  and 
which  you've  got  to  have  if  you're  to  make  your 

way.    She  can  give  you  that,  while  I  can  only  com- 

97 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

promise  you,  and  perhaps  injure  you  by  and  by. 
She  can  give  you  children,  which  you  know  you 
want.  And  nearly  twenty  years  hence  she'll  be 
giving  you  youth  and  grace,  while  I'll  be  gray.  It 
can't  be  helped.  One's  got  to  get  gray,  and  it's  not 
your  fault.  Leave  me,  and  ask  her  to  marry  you ; 
it's  the  right  thing  for  you  to  do,  for  both  of  you ; 
it's  the  right  thing  for  me  to  bear.  Don't  protest ; 
don't  struggle  any  more.  It's  been  so  fine  all  these 
years,  so  don't  spoil  it  now.  Let  our  last  memory 
be  as  beautiful  as  the  first.  We've  taken  all  we  can 
from  life,  and  if  we  can't  take  any  more,  that's  just 
life,  and  it's  not  your  fault  or  mine.  So  remember 
I'm  your  friend  and  say  good-bye." 

After  a  long  pause  Rodbourne  replied :  "I  sup- 
pose you're  right.  I  wish  it  hadn't  happened. 
Good-bye.  But,  Claire  .  .  .  for  the  last  time." 

She  put  out  an  arm ;  "No,  don't  kiss  me.  Better 
not.  I'd  rather  remember  the  kiss  of  the  lover  than 
the  kiss  of  parting."  She  smiled:  "Don't  you 
remember,  you  always  scoffed  at  the  hurried  pecks 
on  railway  station  platforms." 

"Don't,"  snarled  the  man. 

"Why  not  ?  Let  me  keep  my  sense  of  humor.  I 
need  it.  Go  away,  Bob.  I'd  rather  you  did.  I 
want  to  be  alone  a  little  while." 

After  a  second's  hesitation,  Rodbourne  turned 
and  went  to  the  door.  As  he  reached  it,  as  he 
touched  the  handle,  as  she  realized  that  all  this  was 

true,  that  this  was  the  end,  that  when  the  door  closed 

98 


ENDINGS 

behind  him  it  would  establish  no  frail  barrier,  but 
an  obstacle  that  courage,  time,  patience,  even  love 
could  never  overcome,  a  frightful  sense  of  desolation 
overwhelmed  the  woman.  She  was  left  and  cast 
away.  She  felt  impossibly  alone  in  a  world  impos- 
sibly vast,  a  woman  discarded  by  time  and  circum- 
stance. She  jumped  to  her  feet,  holding  out  her 
arms,  trying  to  cry  out  his  name,  to  call  him  back, 
to  hold  on  to  what  she  could,  even  if  it  were  only 
shadow.  But  though  she  struggled  to,  the  intensity 
of  her  emotion  paralyzed  her  throat.  No  sound 
came  from  her.  She  was  distraught,  and  even  when 
the  door  closed  behind  him  she  did  not  quite  realize 
that  he  had  gone;  still  she  so  stood,  eyes  staring, 
mouth  open,  her  brain  filled  with  an  unuttered  cry 
for  him.  Striving  to  vanquish  her  paralysis,  filling 
her  own  spirit  with  a  shriek,  nothing  now  but  a 
screaming  silence. 


99 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

188  Seville  St. 

Knightsbridge,  S.  W. 

Tuesday 
My  Dear  May, 

I  feel  awfully  ashamed  of  myself  for  not  having  an- 
swered your  two  letters,  but  I've  had  such  an  awful  lot 
to  do.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  what  with  spring  cleaning  and  having  to  get 
some  new  frocks,  and  Maud  all  the  time  threatening  to 
give  notice  until  I  nearly  dismiss  her  myself,  I  really 
don't  know  which  way  to  turn.  The  weather's  been 
dreadful,  too.  Half  the  time  one  can't  get  a  taxi, 
and  I  come  home  every  day  understanding  what  a 
poodle  feels  like  on  a  wet  afternoon.  I'm  so  sorry  about 
the  bulbs,  but  it  really  was  your  fault.  I  did  my  best, 
but  the  agent  is  a  Dutchman,  and  what  with  his  not 
knowing  much  English,  and  I  knowing  no  Dutch,  it's  no 
wonder  that  I  got  the  wrong  ones.  You  ought  to 
think  yourself  lucky  I  didn't  send  you  onions.  It's 
always  the  same  thing,  and  don't  say  I'm  being  nasty 
about  it,  but  the  last  time  I  bought  a  hat  for  Hettie,  it 
was,  as  I  said,  the  same  thing.  She  said  she  didn't 
dare  wear  it,  and  you'll  say  I  ought  to  have  known 
what  Derby  was  like,  and  I  did.  I  went  to  Clapham  to 
buy  her  a  hat.  I'll  never  buy  anything  for  anybody 
again. 

100 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

I'm  sorry  to  be  so  captious,  but  you  know  life  is 
always  irritating;  it's  all  very  well  for  you  who  live 
in  the  country.  You  don't  go  anywhere;  you  never 
have  to,  and  all  the  servants  love  you.  Everybody 
does  love  you,  my  dear  May,  especially  I.  Oh,  I  do 
miss  you,  you  know;  you're  so  comfortable.  (I'm  not 
being  rude,  I  don't  mean  it  in  that  way,  and  I'm  fright- 
fully excited  to  hear  you've  lost  four  pounds'  weight. 
By  the  way,  I've  lost  a  couple  of  pounds;  my  giddy 
life,  I  suppose.) 

I'm  really  frightfully  worried,  for  I'm  beginning  to 
think  that  it's  serious  about  Maud.  I  told  you  that  she 
has  a  young  man,  a  butcher  near  here.  If  he  were  only 
smart  and  handsome  I  shouldn't  bother  so  much,  but 
he's  one  of  those  dreadful,  sober,  respectable  widowers 
of  forty  and  he  wants  to  settle  down.  He's  been  tell- 
ing Maud  that  for  four  or  five  years.  Of  course,  it's 
been  very  nice,  for  we  got  cutlets  out  of  him  during 
the  war;  I  need  add  nothing  to  this.  But  the  war's 
over  and  the  butcher's  thinking  of  the  reconstruction, 
and  he  seems  absolutely  determined  to  make  Maud  the 
keystone  of  his  new  edifice.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do  without  her.  She  has  a  way  of  threading  ribbon 
in  my  undies  that's  absolutely  a  work  of  art.  I  hate 
threading  ribbons.  I'm  thinking  of  taking  to  calico 
and  being  done  with  it. 

I'm  awfully  excited  about  Dickey  Altrincham.  I 
never  thought  they'd  do  it,  and  why  he  wants  to  run 
away  with  Mrs.  St.  Lawrence  now  I  can't  understand. 
Of  course,  I  never  liked  the  woman,  but  I've  no  grudge 
against  poor  Dickey.  Well,  people  will  do  these  things. 
And  do  you  know  that  they're  again  trying  to  bring 
in  something  like  the  hobble;  they  all  say  that's  be- 
cause cloth  is  so  dear,  but  as  they  charge  more  than 
ever  they  did  before  I  don't  see  where  that  comes  in. 

101 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

I  look  a  perfect  fright  in  anything  that  tapers  down- 
wards. I  nearly  cried  yesterday  when  my  new  skirt 
came  back.  My  dear,  I  looked  like  one  of  those  spin- 
ning tops  that  small  boys  cast  at  your  feet  when  you 
aren't  expecting  it.  It's  too  bad,  because  Redphreys 
had  made  me  a  sweet  little  coat,  nigger  brown,  with 
dead-gold  silk  lapels.  You  can  see  the  pattern  from 
the  bits  I  send  you.  I'm  afraid  the  carmine  would 
be  a  bit  on  the  red  side  for  you,  but  the  blue  and  silver 
would  be  absolutely  the  thing  for  you,  if  you  had  a 
silver  gray,  or  better  still  a  steel-gray  cloth.  And 
black  enamel  buttons  with  silver  edges  and  centers. 
You  could  show  a  strip  of  the  lining  along  the  cuffs. 
I'm  having  extra  thick  cuffs;  it  sounds  heavy,  but  it 
makes  one  such  a  slim  wrist. 

I  can't  come  down  just  yet,  but  I  hope  to  at  the  end 
of  next  month.  I  met  Violet  Chester  the  other  day  in 
Bond  Street ;  she  had  her  little  husband  with  her,  and 
they  were  looking  into  a  jeweler's  shop  with  an  air 
that  said  he  was  going  to  buy  it  for  her.  They  told 
me  Mona's  going  to  get  married,  but  then  they're  al- 
ways saying  that. 

You  must  come  and  stay  with  me  soon;  London's 
lovely  in  April;  there  are  a  whole  lot  of  new  plays 
coming  on,  and  you'd  better  come  quick  because  they 
never  stay  on  for  long.  I've  been  to  a  wonderful 
show  of  landscapes  by  an  armless  man  who  paints 
with  his  feet.  Anybody  can  see  he  does. 

With  much  love, 

Yours  affectionately, 

CLAIRE 

P.  S.  You  said  nothing  about  Booker.  I  conclude 
that  she  continues  to  reign  undisturbed. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  smiled  to  herself  a  little  bitterly 
102 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

as  she  closed  the  envelope.  Then  she  accepted  a 
couple  of  invitations,  paid  some  bills,  put  through 
a  telephone  call.  She  examined  her  check  book 
and  thoughtfully  compared  the  items  with  those 
in  her  pass  book.  The  result  was  enough  to  annoy 
without  disturbing  her.  Everything  seemed  very 
expensive,  and  she  couldn't  make  out  what  became 
of  the  money  represented  by  the  checks  marked 
"self."  She  reflected  that  it  was  funny,  but  it  was 
a  problem  which  had  pursued  her  all  her  life.  One 
went  on  drawing  checks  to  self,  and  then  when  one 
tried  to  find  out  what  one  got  for  them,  one  found 
that  one  had  drawn  other  checks  for  house,  food, 
clothes,  service,  for  everything.  One  drew  checks 
for  self  and  one  got  nothing.  Just  like  life.  This 
rather  feeble  simile  she  used  as  a  warning  to  herself. 
She  wasn't  going  to  think  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
She  was  so  determined  not  to  think  of  it  that  she 
forced  herself  once  more  to  the  telephone  to  ask  the 
bootmaker  whether  her  appointment  was  for  three- 
thirty,  though  she  knew  quite  well  that  it  was  for 
three. 

She  was  perfectly  quiet,  perfectly  collected ;  she 
was  determined  to  run  her  household  and  all  her 
affairs  with  a  sort  of  calm  efficiency.  Getting  up 
at  the  usual  time,  making  a  good  breakfast  whether 
she  wanted  it  or  not,  and  seeing  to  things  properly. 
And  not  shutting  herself  up,  or  any  nonsense  like 
that,  but  going  out  and  meeting  her  friends  as  usual. 
She'd  been  going  a  good  deal  to  the  theater  lately, 
8  103 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

and  on  the  whole  she  was  having  a  fine  time.  She 
wasn't  going  to  do  anything  which  could  suggest 
that  she  was  unhappy,  or  that  anything  unusual  had 
happened.  She  wasn't  going  to  seem  defiant,  or 
pretend  to  be  more  cheerful  than  she  felt,  but  she 
was  determined  that  nothing  in  her  manner  should 
betray  change.  She  suffered,  granted,  but  that  was 
her  business.  She  needed  no  sympathy,  did  not 
seek  to  relieve  herself  by  confidences.  She  was  living 
an  ordinary  life  as  she  had  lived  it  before;  it  did 
no  good  to  go  round  talking  to  people  about  one's 
misfortunes ;  one  only  bored  them,  or  made  oneself 
ridiculous ;  one  lost  one's  sense  of  dignity,  which  in 
such  a  situation  was  the  only  comfort  one  could 
expect. 

That  at  least  was  Mrs.  Caldecot's  point  of  view 
most  of  the  day.  She  had  managed  to  secure  enough 
futile  occupations  to  fill  up  the  waking  hours.  As 
she  was  popular,  and  as  London  was  waking  to  the 
spring,  she  went  out  almost  every  night,  or  gave 
her  usual  little  parties.  These  latter  produced, 
however,  certain  difficulties.  She  had  always  been 
careful,  and  Rodbourne  had  not  in  those  eight  years 
become  an  immutable  figure  in  her  entertainments. 
She  would  have  wanted  him  to  be  such,  and  he  had 
often  quarreled  with  her  because  she  excluded  him. 
But  Mrs.  Caldecot  had  made  her  rules.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  his  political  career,  of  a  social 
position  that  would  stand  a  fair  amount  but  not  too 
much,  it  would  never  have  done  for  Bob  always  to 

104 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

be  hanging  about  the  house.  He  did  not  come  to 
see  her  more  than  once,  or  at  the  most  twice  a 
week  .  .  .  but  he  was  either  coming,  or  would  come 
next  day,  or  had  just  been.  He  had  sat  on  that  arm- 
chair, forgotten  a  newspaper  cutting  on  the  mantel- 
piece. Mrs.  Caldecot  thought  herself  absurd  as, 
some  evenings,  she  looked  with  content  into  the  ash 
tray  where  lay  the  stump  of  his  cigar.  Well,  that 
was  over.  No  more  would  the  familiar  ghost  tread 
his  customary  walk.  That  was  over.  He  wouldn't 
come  here  again.  Or  if  he  came  after  he'd  married 
Patricia,  she'd  have  to  pretend  that  her  wound  was 
healed,  knowing  that  it  was  only  covered  over. 
She  supposed  he'd  come.  It  couldn't  be  helped, 
society  being  what  it  was,  for  to  quarrel  would  have 
been  to  confess  something  that  Patricia  must  never 
know.  He  was  gone;  say  no  more  about  it,  think 
no  more  about  it,  feel  no  more. 

That  was  all  over,  it  was  all  very  well,  but  it 
couldn't  be  done  so  easily.  If  Mrs.  Caldecot  had 
had  a  large  house  and  a  husband,  several  noisy 
children,  various  servants,  some  barking  dogs,  it 
would  have  been  easier.  There  wouldn't  have  been 
room  for  the  ghost  to  walk.  Things  went  pretty 
well  until  after  dinner,  if  she  happened  to  be  at 
home  alone;  if  she  went  out  things  were  all  right 
until  about  midnight,  when  the  taxi  driver  pulled 
up  his  flag  and  drove  off.  After  she  closed  the 
door  on  the  silent  hall,  Mrs.  Caldecot  always  tried 

to  be  airy  with  herself.    She  looked  upon  the  table  to 

105 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

see  if  the  late  post  had  brought  any  letters.  Oh, 
she  didn't  expect  any  letters  from  him,  for  she  had 
forbidden  those,  but  there  might  be  something  else, 
something  interesting.  The  daily  romance  of  the 
post  might  bring  her  .  .  .  she  didn't  know  what. 
So  she  went  upstairs,  tearing  open  the  envelopes,  and 
perhaps  humming  a  tune.  Perhaps  she  even  went 
into  the  drawing-room  where  some  lemon  squash 
was  left  for  her  in  case  she  came  in  thirsty.  She 
nearly  always  drank  the  lemon  squash;  that  was 
something  to  do.  She  tried  to  go  to  bed  as  soon  as 
she  could,  but  she  never  could  go  quite  quickly 
enough.  The  house  was  silent;  the  servants  slept; 
on  the  ground  floor,  first  floor,  second  floor  there 
was  nothing  except  herself  and  all  these  memories. 
It  was  no  use  running  away.  There  was  his  arm- 
chair, the  broad  arm  where  she  so  often  had  sat, 
looking  over  his  shoulder  while  he  read  her  extracts 
from  the  report  of  a  Royal  Commission.  She  closed 
her  eyes,  teDing  herself  that  she  must  not  raise  the 
image,  but  she  closed  them  all  the  same  to  raise  it 
better,  to  catch  once  more  the  patch  of  light  thrown 
from  the  central  bulb  upon  his  left  temple,  the 
well-tended  brown  hands  holding  the  bluebook,  the 
little  gleaming  hairs  upon  their  backs.  She  could 
hear  so  well  the  steady,  low  voice  as  he  read.  He 
read  atrociously,  like  most  people  who  speak  flu- 
ently, stumbling  and  missing  commas,  and  starting 
sentences  over  again  in  the  middle;  she  liked  that 

imperfection:  it  helped  him  to  be  perfect. 

106 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

Again  she  told  herself,  "I  mustn't,"  and  still 
went  on  indulging  in  vice.  What  else  could  she 
do  ?  Everything  was  alive  with  him,  the  window  with 
the  warped  sash  with  which  he  struggled  to  look 
out  and  see  if  the  night  was  fine,  whether  he  should 
ring  for  a  taxi ;  the  mantelpiece  upon  which  unre- 
buked  he  had  made  marks  by  knocking  out  his  pipe ; 
the  blotter,  on  the  one  sheet  of  which  a  few  words 
in  his  writing  were  preserved.  It  was  his  room,  the 
place  where  he  had  stood  among  her  friends,  cheer- 
ful and  popular,  where  women  had  made  up  to  him, 
while  from  time  to  time  he  threw  her  a  glance  of 
complicity  to  tell  her  that  it  was  all  right,  that  she 
had  her  share  in  the  joke.  This  happened  nearly 
every  time,  though  she  struggled  against  it,  and  by 
degrees  was  managing  to  expel  the  most  material 
evidences  of  him.  She  had  burned  that  sheet  of 
blotting  paper,  sent  back  the  book  he  was  reading. 
She  had  done  what  she  could,  but  in  a  way  she  suf- 
fered more  in  the  places  less  definitely  associated 
with  him,  the  stairs,  her  bedroom,  other  rooms 
that  had  no  personality.  It  was  so  silent  in  this 
house ;  her  feet  made  no  sound  upon  the  stairs ;  her 
bedroom  was  so  large.  She  felt  so  fearfully  alone. 
Of  course,  she  had  been  alone  for  thirteen  years, 
so  it  wasn't  quite  that,  but  when  she  had  Bob  it  was 
as  if  a  kindly  wraith  went  with  her.  She  was  not 
alone  then,  but  only  waiting.  Now  there  was  noth- 
ing to  wait  for ;  to-morrow  would  be  as  to-day ;  she 
would  go  on  among  those  many  empty  rooms  and 

107 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

seek  sounds  for  company.  And  there  would  be 
nothing.  It  made  her  a  little  frightened.  She  didn't 
know  why  but  it  was — how  could  she  put  it  ? — as  if 
in  any  room  except  the  one  in  which  she  found 
herself  something  lay  dead,  inoffensive  but  so  still, 
something  that  lay  white  and  could  not  rise  again. 
Sometimes  the  day  dream  grew  literal.  She  made  a 
picture  of  Bob  lying  under  a  white  sheet,  his  fair 
hair  in  order,  his  eyes  closed,  his  body  defined  by 
the  little  hills  under  the  sheet  made  by  his  feet  and 
his  breast.  The  candle  by  his  side  cast  upon  his 
pale  cheek  the  shadow  of  his  gleaming  eyelashes. 
Once  she  went  downstairs  to  see  if  it  were  true,  and 
though,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  there,  she 
was  frightened :  it  was  as  if  something  had  been  there 
and  had  been  taken  away.  It  was  unendurable,  the 
silence,  the  vast  space,  the  sense  of  depending  only 
upon  herself,  holding  all  this  up  without  human  con- 
tact or  relationship.  It  was  glacial.  She  tried  to 
do  things.  She  smoked.  She  read.  She  rattled 
ornaments  to  make  sound,  she  noted  decays  in  car- 
pets and  boards  to  be  put  right,  but  it  didn't  seem 
to  mean  anything,  all  that.  It  was  worse  than 
being  haunted  by  a  ghost.  She  was  haunted  by  an 
emptiness. 

Among  the  definite  anguishes  that  Mrs.  Caldecot 
experienced  was  her  loss  of  communication  with  the 
world  of  ideas.  It  was  not  that  she  missed  the 
letters  which  she  had  forbidden.  Those  had  never 

been  very  many,  for  they  met  one  way  or  another 

108 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

almost  every  day,  and  he  had  written  only  to  make 
appointments,  and  occasionally,  as  he  put  it,  sent 
her  a  love  letter  to  keep  her  in  a  good  temper. 
What  she  missed  was  the  constant  talk  about  the 
events  of  the  day,  the  political  movements  which 
she  knew  so  intimately,  the  secret  intentions  of  this 
group,  or  the  gossip  about  that  minister.  Mrs. 
Caldecot  knew  the  details  of  a  good  many  bills 
before  they  were  drafted,  and  so  she  read  her  daily 
paper,  not  like  the  ordinary  reader,  but  criticized 
it  through  private  knowledge,  smiling  at  its  errors 
and  amusedly  guessing  exactly  what  this  piece  of 
news  would  cost  the  Cabinet.  She  had  lived  in  the 
middle  of  political  drama,  and  as  it  had  been  a  daily 
excitement,  she  did  not  know  how  to  do  without  it. 
She  had  been  apart  from  Rodbourne  less  than  two 
months,  so  she  could  still  draw  on  accumulated 
knowledge;  she  still  guessed  things  from  the  news, 
but  lately  she  had  been  puzzled.  Things  were  printed 
which  she  did  not  understand  so  clearly,  or  which 
surprised  her.  She  did  not  at  once  realize  what 
that  meant,  and  it  came  to  her  only  by  degrees  that 
day  by  day  she  was  receding  from  the  center  of 
political  ideas.  That  didn't  matter,  she  told  her- 
self; she'd  never  cared  very  much  except  for  Bob, 
but  it  reminded  her  every  day  in  the  most  material, 
cold  way  that  this  defined  her  severance.  She  had 
gone  out  of  his  life ;  thus  came  the  evidence  of  part- 
ing. When  she  first  realized  this,  it  hurt  so  much 
that  she  decided  to  read  the  newspapers  no  more. 

109 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

But  she  couldn't  help  it ;  eight  years  of  habit  were 
too  strong,  and,  after  missing  two  days,  once  again 
she  began  to  follow  while  trying  to  draw  away ;  she 
even  criticized  to  herself  a  speech  of  Rodbourne's 
after  hiding  the  paper  away  and  telling  herself  she 
wouldn't  read  it.  She  gave  way  at  last,  for  she 
wanted  to  keep  that  much,  to  hold  on  to  a  distant 
interest  if  she  could  no  longer  give  personal  service. 

She  had,  too,  to  find  other  things.  She  wanted  a 
substitute  for  her  old  preoccupations.  It  was  that, 
no  doubt,  led  her  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to 
interest  herself  in  the  spring  cleaning.  She  always 
disliked  it.  She  had  a  catlike  objection  to  the  dis- 
turbance of  the  affair,  but  this  time  she  found  an 
obscure  anodyne  in  directing  those  detestable  opera- 
tions, in  wandering,  dusty  and  untidy,  about  furni- 
ture stacked  in  the  middle  of  the  rooms,  in  tripping 
over  carpets  waiting  on  the  stairs  to  go  to  the 
shampooer.  The  noise  of  the  unleashed  domestics, 
who  were  enj  oying  the  opportunity  of  dropping  and 
banging  without  limit,  the  abominable  dinners  of 
cold  beef,  tinned  soup,  and  cheese,  all  this  artificial 
activity  delighted  her,  because  it  forced  upon  her 
preoccupations.  She  realized  it  when  once  she  told 
herself :  "When  a  woman's  got  no  one  to  love,  she's 
got  to  have  business.  When  she  has  got  somebody 
she  doesn't  need  it." 

One  result  of  the  spring  cleaning  was  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  drawing-room  carpet,  upon  which  the 

window  cleaner  emptied  a  pailful  of  some  acid  of 

110 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

his  own,  that  was  very  effective  on  glass,  but  had 
on  carpets  unfortunate  results.  This  led  Mrs. 
Caldecot  to  go  out  and  look  for  a  new  carpet,  and 
to  wander  happily  among  furniture  shops,  where 
in  the  end  she  became  intoxicated  with  a  flaming 
Axminister,  striped  yellow  and  black.  She  was  in 
a  great  hurry  to  get  it  home ;  she  loved  it  so  much. 
When  it  arrived,  she  discovered  with  a  shock  that 
in  buying  the  attractive  thing  she  had  forgotten 
that  the  room  it  was  to  lie  in  had  been  decorated  to 
suit  the  former  carpet,  which  was  cerise.  The  walls 
were  green,  the  moldings  gilt;  in  the  panels  were 
set  little  frescoes  after  Boucher  and  Watteau.  The 
result  was  absurd  :  it  was  the  Russian  Ballet  at  the 
court  of  Louis  XV.  So  there  rose  up  in  Mrs.  Cal- 
decot's  mind  the  wild  and  enduring  passion  which 
secretly  devours  all  women :  to  redecorate.  She  had 
a  splendid  month.  She  encountered  all  the  delicious 
difficulties  of  the  occupation ;  she  ordered  Georgian 
red  from  a  decorator  who,  like  most  of  his  kind, 
could  picture  only  one  kind  of  red — namely,  Vic- 
torian dining-room  red.  When  reproached,  he  was 
exasperated  into  pillar-box  red.  It  took  ten  days  to 
persuade  him  into  the  tempered  terra  cotta  of  the 
period.  Mrs.  Caldecot  had  the  egg-and-tongue 
moldings  broken  down  and  replaced  by  flat  cor- 
nices. She  painted  her  ceiling  a  pale  yellow,  which 
the  decorator  thought  rather  immoral.  And  in  a 
splendid  fit  of  energy  she  had  the  whole  contents  of 
the  drawing-room  taken  away  and  replaced  in  the 

111 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Moscow-Babylonian  style:  all  the  furniture  was 
painted,  some  the  color  of  egg,  some  purple  touched 
with  gold.  The  mantelpiece  was  japanned  black, 
and  its  decoration  of  fruit  picked  out  in  Bakst 
colors.  When  she  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  do, 
she  bought  a  cushion  of  a  color  she  hadn't  seen 
before.  But  this  amusement  could  not  last  long. 
She  was  happy  while  it  lasted,  but  when  the  drawing- 
room  was  done,  and  when  she  was  tempted  to  go 
on  and  redecorate  the  whole  house,  she  realized  that 
this  too  would  have  its  end:  at  once  her  passion 
subsided.  She  didn't  want  things  that  had  an  end. 
She  hadn't  lived  like  that.  She  could  not  do  with 
finite  occupations,  she  who  had  lived  on  instalments 
of  eternity.  She  began  to  feel  very  idle,  and  it  was 
that  caused  her  to  entertain  and  be  entertained, 
while  in  the  first  fortnight  of  her  separation  she  had 
decided  to  see  nobody.  She  then  wanted  to  cherish 
her  grief,  to  crawl  away  like  an  animal  preparing  to 
die.  In  such  alterations  of  feeling  her  misery  ex- 
pressed itself.  She  wanted  to  be  alone,  unquestioned 
and  unobserved ;  she  wanted  to  live  a  giddy,  whirling 
life;  she  wanted  the  calm  affection  of  May  Head- 
corn;  she  couldn't  bear  to  go  near  her  and  talk 
about  it.  She  was  in  chaos. 

About  two  weeks  after  her  return  from  Cantrel 
Court,  Mrs.  Caldecot  received  from  Stephen  Brit- 
ford  an  invitation  to  dine.  This  was  not  exactly 
unusual,  as  she  had  known  Britford  for  twenty 

years,  but  somehow,  of  late  years,  she  had  seen  less 

112 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

of  her  old  friend.  She  met  him  occasionally,  two  or 
three  times  a  year.  He  dined  at  Seville  Street  and 
seemed  to  get  on  very  well  with  Rodbourne.  Still, 
he  always  made  her  a  little  awkward.  In  her  present 
mood  she  refused,  but  stayed  for  some  time  finger- 
ing the  letter.  After  all?  Why  not?  She  was  very 
fond  of  Stephen,  and  he  ...  well,  she  knew  he  was 
in  love  with  her.  Always  had  been.  Poor  old 
Stephen !  He  had  been  so  frightfully,  so  weari- 
somely faithful  to  her.  So  faithful,  so  untouched 
by  gossip  that  it  had  become  dull.  He  proposed  to 
her  when  she  was  twenty,  and  she  refused  him,  not 
only  because  she  didn't  love  him,  but  somehow  be- 
cause she  didn't  feel  he  loved  her.  Stephen  was  so 
cold,  so  precise.  Clever,  yes,  sometimes  entertain- 
ing, quite  distinguished,  a  K.  C.  very  early.  Every- 
thing except  the  gleam  that  some  other  men  had, 
that  even  Geoffrey,  the  vile,  the  worthless  Geoffrey 
had.  She  sighed ;  Geoffrey  had  carried  her  off ;  she 
didn't  know  what  she  was  doing.  Yet  she  didn't 
despise  herself,  for  she  knew  that  in  those  days  few 
women  could  have  resisted  Geoffrey  Caldecot.  He 
did  everything  in  such  a  lovely  masculine  way:  he 
drank,  not  in  a  disgusting  way,  but  as  she  expected 
they  did  under  Charles  II;  when  he  gambled  and 
came  to  his  last  throw,  he  always  emptied  his 
pockets  and  staked  everything  he  had,  taxi  fare  and 
coppers,  everything;  when  he  favored  a  woman  he 
kissed  her  with  a  debonair  laugh,  as  she  expected 

Prince  Hal  did,  bending  down  from  his  horse,  and 

113 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

chucking  a  village  maiden  under  the  chin.  Of 
course,  Britford  hadn't  a  chance  against  him.  But 
he  accepted  her  decision,  remained  her  friend,  went 
on  seeing  her.  Toward  the  end,  when  all  London 
knew  how  Geoffrey  treated  her,  Britford  quietly 
repeated  that  he  loved  her  and  asked  her  to  go  away 
with  him.  But  he  did  it  so  simply.  He  was  offer- 
ing her  something  terrific,  his  whole  career.  But 
he  didn't  make  anything  of  that.  He  behaved  as  if 
he  were  making  her  a  deed  of  gift  of  his  future. 
She  couldn't  do  it.  Like  him  as  she  did,  respect  him 
as  she  must,  he  didn't  move  her.  Nor  did  he  move 
her  during  the  five  years  of  her  loneliness  after 
Geoffrey  deserted  her.  He  was  always  there,  sedu- 
lous, attentive.  Once  or  twice  she  felt  that  there 
was  some  fire  behind  those  monkish  gray  eyes,  but  he 
wouldn't  let  it  out;  it  smoldered  and  glowed  per- 
haps, but  there  was  no  spark.  So  still  he  remained 
her  friend,  still  her  friend  when  he  realized  that 
Rodbourne  had  succeeded  where  he  had  failed.  And 
now  again.  Oh,  he  was  no  Major  Dobbin;  there 
was  in  his  pursuit  something  relentless  and  cold.  It 
was  as  if  he  took  his  case  from  the  King's  Bench  to 
the  Court  of  Appeal,  from  the  Court  of  Appeal  to 
the  Lords.  And  she  knew  that  if  he  were  beaten  in 
the  Lords  he'd  rig  up  yet  another  case  on  a  different 
basis.  Well,  it  was  flattering  in  a  way,  as  are  many 
irritating  affairs.  No,  she  really  couldn't  be  both- 
ered. So,  as  she  went  out,  she  wrote  another  letter, 
accepting. 

114 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

At  dinner  Britford  behaved  exactly  as  usual.  He 
had  not  changed  much  in  twenty  years.  That  was 
the  terrible  part  of  it.  He  had  always  been  slight, 
formal,  elegant,  with  quietly  hard  gray  eyes  under 
a  good,  high  brow;  perhaps  the  flesh  was  a  little 
tighter  drawn  on  the  bones,  but  the  hair  was  only 
spattered  with  gray.  Like  his  pursuit,  Britford 
endured  forever.  He  gave  her  a  very  good  dinner, 
as  he  always  did.  His  car  was  found  easily  because 
it  stood  at  the  right  place.  They  went  to  the 
theater,  and  there  were  no  mechanical  difficulties  at 
all.  Britford  was  not  one  of  the  men  who  must 
wave  at  the  program  girl.  And  he  behaved  per- 
fectly. She  felt  that  he  knew  all  about  Rodbourne, 
probably  that  he  knew  everything  that  happened  in 
her  house,  and  that  he  had  added  the  new  facts  to 
her  file.  But  he  said  nothing  about  it;  he  talked 
agreeably  as  usual  about  the  things  of  the  day ;  he 
gave  her  some  details  of  only  one  case  that  he  was 
concerned  with,  which  happened  to  be  a  rather  spicy 
divorce.  She  knew  that  he  had  probably  selected 
that  case  in  the  morning,  knowing  it  would  interest 
her.  She  could  hear  him  asking  his  clerk  to  remind 
him  of  the  cases  that  were  coming  on  so  that  he 
might  pick  the  one  ideally  suited,  just  as  he  might 
select  the  right  brand  of  Sauterne.  Heavens !  what 
a  bill  he  must  have  against  her!  She  was  rather 
frightened  of  him  as  they  drove  back,  for  this  was 
obviously  the  moment  when  he  would  begin  his  fourth 
series  of  tactical  advances.  Instead  of  this  he  con- 

115 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

gratulated  her  on  her  frock,  discussed  it  with  good 
taste  and  let  her  go.  She  was  not  exactly  dis- 
appointed, but  surprised.  Hitherto,  Britford  had 
never  played  her:  perhaps  he  didn't  care  for  her 
any  more.  This  kept  her  awake  a  little  while.  She 
did  not  want  the  burden  of  Britf ord's  affection,  but, 
abandoned  as  she  was,  in  a  way  for  the  second  time, 
she  terribly  wanted  the  reassurance  that  alone  men 
could  give  her.  She  didn't  want  to  realize  that 
perhaps  even  now  age  and  old  habit  were  insuring 
her  against  approach. 

She  was  very  miserable  for  the  next  few  days. 
If  even  Britford  didn't  care  for  her  any  more,  per- 
haps nobody  would,  for  in  him  it  was  almost  a  cus- 
tom to  make  love  to  her.  Oh,  she  didn't  want  him 
to,  she  didn't  want  anybody  to,  but  she  still  wanted 
them  to  want  to.  She'd  been  admired  and  loved 
for  twenty  years.  She  couldn't  imagine  the  next 
twenty  without  something  like  that.  What  else 
was  she  good  for?  Being  a  pure  woman  she  was 
a  little  ashamed  of  herself.  She  had  never  deliber- 
ately tried  to  attract  a  man;  she  had  been  impec- 
cably faithful  to  the  two  she  had  known;  she  had 
yielded  to  Rodbourne  because  she  needed  him  only 
as  much  as  he  needed  her;  some  might  have  called 
her  immoral,  but  she  had  the  soul  of  a  young  lady. 
Only  she  was  also  human  and  vain. 

So  she  was  very  glad  when  after  those  two  days 
Stephen  rang  up  and  asked  her  to  lunch.  They 

went  to  a  private  room  at  a  famous  restaurant. 

116 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

This  did  not  frighten  her,  for  they  had  often  done 
it  before,  Stephen  being  one  of  those  men  who  like 
to  be  very  well  served  by  a  special  attendant,  and 
he  had  never  profited  by  the  situation  to  the  extent 
of  the  slightest  familiarity.  Ten  years  before,  she 
had  told  herself  that  she  could  trust  Stephen,  told 
herself  so  with  a  little  resentment.  So  they  had  a 
very  good  lunch,  and  Mrs.  Caldecot  felt  so  unhappy 
that  perhaps  she  took  a  little  too  much  to  drink. 
Stephen  was  in  a  cheerful  mood,  and  she  wanted  to 
respond  to  it ;  it  was  that  caused  her  to  add  Bene- 
dictine with  the  coffee.  Generally,  she  avoided 
liqueurs,  and  this  small  dose  had  some  effect.  After 
a  moment  she  saw  Britford  a  little  mistily.  He 
was  quite  normal,  was  chatting  simply  about  a  play 
he  had  wanted  her  to  see;  he  was  not  real  to  her, 
and  talked  of  things  that  had  happened  long  ago, 
somewhere  else.  Suddenly  he  said : 

"Well,  that  was  nice  stuff,  wasn't  it?  This  is 
the  first  time  I've  seen  you  drink  it,  Claire."  She 
smiled  stupidly,  and  he  went  on:  "Upon  my  word, 
Claire,  I  believe  you're  tight.  Oh,  do  be  tight; 
won't  you  get  up  and  try  a  skirt  dance?" 

Mrs.  Caldecot  rose  to  her  feet.  After  all,  why 
not?  Why  not  be  giddy  and  gay?  But  almost  at 
once  the  sense  of  forlornness  returned  to  her.  She 
made  a  picture  of  herself  skirt-dancing,  like  an  old 
print  of  the  'eighties,  faded  and  dusty,  touched  with 
blue  mold  at  the  edges.  So  suddenly  her  loose- 
lipped  smile  vanished;  falling  upon  the  chair  she 

117 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into  horrible, 
shaking  sobs.  For  a  moment  Britford  stared  at 
her.  He  had  not  expected  this,  and  it  embarrassed 
him.  He  had  brought  her  to  the  restaurant  with 
intentions.  He  loved  her  as  he  always  did,  and 
would  get  her  when  he  could,  he  ... 

Then  he  had  to  get  up  and  go  to  her,  for  this  was 
frightful. 

"Don't,"  he  said,  timidly,  putting  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  look  up.  If  one  hand  had 
not  been  pressing  against  her  mouth  she  would  have 
filled  the  room  with  screams.  She  was  crying  in  a 
way  that  Britford  did  not  understand,  in  a  horrible, 
animal  way,  shaking  violently  as  she  wept,  and  not 
trying  to  talk,  but  expressing  herself  in  horrible 
moans,  broken  by  gasps  for  breath. 

"My  God !"  said  Stephen,  "don't  do  that,  Claire." 
Seizing  her  by  the  shoulders,  he  took  her  into  his 
arms.  She  did  not  resist,  but  he  could  not  draw 
her  hands  away  from  her  face,  and  still  she  shook 
in  his  grasp,  until  at  last  he  led  her  to  the  sofa, 
forced  her  to  lie  down.  He  leaped  to  the  table  to 
get  some  water,  and  as  he  turned  the  sobs  stopped. 
Mrs.  Caldecot  sat  up,  her  back  to  him,  as  if  trying 
to  hide  her  swollen  face.  The  stiffness  of  her  atti- 
tude terrified  him,  thawed  the  glacial  coat  of  his 
good  manners.  He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  by 
the  sofa,  threw  his  arms  about  her,  tried  to  force  her 

to  turn  round. 

118 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

"Don't,"  she  said  in  a  weak,  even  voice,  "don't 
look  at  me,  Stephen." 

He  was  surprised  to  find  himself  fervent :  "What 
do  I  care !"  he  said.  As  she  turned,  she  let  her  head 
fall  upon  his  shoulder.  It  fell  heavily,  fell  with  a 
suggestion  of  complete  powerlessness.  Britford  felt 
as  he  had  felt  half  his  life,  that  he  loved  this  woman, 
that  she  had  for  him  something  that  no  other  woman 
had,  that  he  wanted  her  happiness  as  much  as  his 
own,  wanted  to  protect  her  and  cheer  her;  he  was 
all  warmth.  But  he  could  not  release  his  emotion; 
the  compassed  habits  of  a  lifetime  had  hardened, 
desiccated  him.  He  wanted  to  set  before  her  the 
sumptuous  feast  of  an  eternal  passion  and  the 
words  would  not  come.  So,  in  the  extremity  of  his 
old  desire,  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  lips.  Mrs. 
Caldecot  did  not  withdraw.  Her  swollen  eyes  were 
closed,  and  her  lips  made  a  slight  movement  as  if  she 
would  return  the  caress.  But  it  was  hardly  an  inten- 
tion, only  a  flicker.  At  first  contact  she  had  felt  an 
immense  comfort.  To  be  held,  to  feel  the  solidity  of 
another  creature,  it  was  physically  good.  She  wanted 
to  give  herself  to  it,  to  surrender  herself,  to  think  no 
more,  just  to  remit  all  her  weakness,  all  her  anguish 
to  anybody  who  wanted  it.  But  she  could  not  do  it. 
She  was  merely  seized  by  a  sort  of  emotional  revolt 
actuated  by  no  reasons.  So  her  lips  did  not  return 
the  kiss :  indeed,  after  a  moment,  she  pushed  Britford 
away.  Quite  careless  of  her  red  eyes,  of  her  cheeks 
made  sticky  with  powder  and  tears,  she  looked  at  him. 
9  119 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"I  love  you,"  said  Britford.  "Have  I  got  to  say 
it  again?" 

She  did  not  at  once  reply.  She  looked  with  pleas- 
ure upon  that  intelligent,  thin  face,  the  calm  eyes 
in  which  even  now  there  was  no  ardor.  *'Don't, 
Stephen,"  she  said.  "Dear  Stephen,  you're  my  best 
friend,  but  let  me  go." 

"Why  should  I  let  you  go?"  replied  Britford, 
calmly.  "When  what  I  want  to  do  is  to  hold  you 
for  the  rest  of  your  life?" 

He  looked  at  her,  waiting  for  a  clear  answer  to 
his  clear  question.  Before  she  spoke  he  had  wanted 
to  overwhelm  her  with  ardent  caresses,  but  the  intel- 
lectual question  interested  him  more. 

"I  can't?"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  ignoring  this. 
"You  know  I  can't.  If  I  could  have,  it  would  have 
been  long  ago." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Britford,  as  she  freed  herself 
completely  and  they  stood  face  to  face,  "that's 
got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I've  always  wanted  you ; 
I  always  shall,  and  I  want  you  now." 

"I  can't,  Stephen.  Please  don't  hurt  me.  I've 
had  enough  the  last  two  months." 

*'I  know.    That's  why  I'm  asking  you  again." 

"I  know  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "It 
doesn't  matter." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Britford,  twisting  his 
watch  chain.  She  knew  this  gesture.  It  meant  that 
he  was  considering  the  situation  judicially.  "We 

can  get  married  all  right,  if  only  you'll  do  it.     I 

120 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

can  make  arrangements  to  have  Caldecot  found,  and 
there  need  not  be  much  publicity  over  your  divorce. 
We  can  do  the  thing  quietly.  I  should  say  we  could 
be  married  about  this  time  next  year." 

"I  can't." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  you  know  quite  well.  Geoffrey  won't  give 
in  like  that." 

"Then  you'll  marry  me,"  cried  Britford,  seizing 
his  advantage  and  for  a  moment  warming. 

"No.  You  don't  see  what  I  mean.  If  you  did 
find  Geoffrey  he'd  fight  and  .  .  .  well,  you  know." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Stephen.  "Let  Geoffrey 
charge  you  with  anything  he  likes.  You  are  you." 

"Dear  Stephen,  why  are  you,  a  lawyer,  trying  to 
blind  yourself  as  well  as  me  to  the  fact  that  I 
shouldn't  get  a  divorce?  There,  don't,  dear.  Don't 
you  think  I  know  ?  Don't  you  think  I  know  that  if 
I  promise  myself  to  you  and  I  don't  get  my  divorce 
we  shall  naturally  .  .  .  and  I  can't  do  that." 

He  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  liked  to  find  Claire 
intelligent,  but  it  annoyed  him  that  she  should  be 
intelligent  enough  to  discover  his  train  of  thought. 
So  he  generalized:  "Oh,  these  things  don't  matter 
as  much  as  you  think." 

"You  mean  that  you'll  take  the  risk  of  scandal,  and 
all  that  ?  You  would,  of  course,  for  you  do  love  me, 
I  know  that,  and  it's  sweet  to  think  it,  even  though 
I  suppose  I've  spoilt  your  life,  taken  you  away  from 

some  woman  who  might  have  made  you  happy." 

121 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"No  woman  could  have  performed  that  service.'* 

"Perhaps  not.  I'm  sorry,  Stephen.  I  wish  some- 
body could  have.  But  I  can't.  I  really  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I'm  so  weak  and  so  unhappy  and  so 
lonely  now  that  if  I  were  to  give  way,  what  do  you 
think  would  happen?  After  a  while,  a  year,  a 
month,  I  don't  know,  when  I  felt  stronger  and  safer, 
I'd  find  out  that  I'd  made  a  mistake,  that  you  were 
my  dearest,  my  truest  friend,  but  that  I  couldn't 
love  you  like  that,  that  it  would  be  unworthy  of 
both  of  us.  And  I  couldn't  stay  with  you  then." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Britford,  holding  his  chin, 
"that  there  is  a  risk  for  me  alone  to  face." 

"No.  I  must  face  it  too,  and  I  can't.  Oh,  don't 
you  understand  what  all  this  means  to  me?  Sup- 
pose I  were  to  do  this  and  then  repent  it,  again  I'd 
be  lonely  and  miserable.  I'd  have  quarreled  with 
you;  then  perhaps  somebody  else  would  think  me 
just  pretty  enough  to  while  away  a  year.  I'd  be 
miserable,  and  I'd  give  way,  just  not  to  be  alone. 
I'd  repent  again.  Or  worse,  perhaps,  I  might  be 
discarded.  I  have  been  .  .  .  twice." 

"Now  that  is  enough,"  said  Britford,  attempting 
masculine  control.  "Just  you  do  what  I  tell  you." 

She  eluded  the  hand  he  put  out:  "No,  Stephen, 
it's  no  good.  I  can't  be  that  sort  of  woman.  I've 
been  used  to  being  loved  all  my  life ;  I've  been  miser- 
able and  ill-treated  sometimes,  yes,  but  I've  been 
loved.  I  can't  let  myself  go  to  what  would  become 

122 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

a  habit,  become  a  necessity.  I  can't  be  the  sort  of 
aging  woman  who  clings  to  her  lovers,  who  watches 
them,  who's  always  afraid  of  her  woman  friends, 
who  chooses  them  only  among  the  unbeautiful  and 
the  faded,  who  makes  a  wall  round  her  men,  im- 
prisons them." 

"You'd  never  be  .  .  ." 

"Oh  yes,  I  would  be  that  sort  of  woman  if  I 
started.  One  can't  help  it.  One  wants  to  go  on 
being  young,  being  loved.  Good  heavens !  don't  we 
both  of  us  know  half  a  dozen  women  like  that? 
Women  who  are  tolerated  by  men  who  are  tired  of 
them,  and  don't  want  to  be  unkind  to  them;  by 
men  who  don't  know  how  to  get  out  of  their  relation 
because  they're  afraid  of  a  scene;  men  of  honor, 
sticking  to  their  old  loves  because  it's  the  decent 
thing  to  do;  and  men  that  nobody  else'll  look  at 
because  they're  the  wrong  class,  or  no  good.  That's 
what  I'd  become,  Stephen,  if  I  let  myself  go  to  this 
thing,  for  the  sake  of  being  loved  again.  Badly 
painted  and  badly  dyed  at  fifty,  wearing  second- 
hand clothes,  and  sporting  second-hand  emotions,  a 
nuisance,  wearying  men  with  attentions  and  women 
with  woes,  dull  and  pitiful,  a  subject  for  chatter, 
for  contempt,  for  sympathy  that  is  contempt  in 
disguise  .  .  .  that  would  be  me.  And  it  shan't  be, 
Stephen.  I've  loved  and  I've  lost.  All  right ;  don't 
make  it  too  hard  for  me.  Don't  join  other  people 
who  don't  know  me  as  you  do  and  don't  understand 

me  as  you  do.     For  God's  sake  let  me  die  game." 

123 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

As  a  natural  reaction  from  her  scene  with  Brit- 
ford,  Mrs.  Caldecot  took  up  her  ordinary  place  in 
the  world,  met  her  friends,  and  after  a  little  effort, 
found  that  she  took  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure 
in  their  society.  But  not  in  that  of  all  of  them. 
She  found,  notably,  that  she  got  on  with  women 
better  than  men.  Men  annoyed  her;  they  seemed 
dense.  This  came  to  her  most  strongly  at  a  dinner 
party  where  she  arrived  a  little  early,  and  where 
she  found,  with  two  women  and  the  man  of  the 
house,  the  sort  of  nicely  brushed,  pleasant  soldier 
who  so  often  appears  at  a  dinner  party.  Her  host 
could  not  be  a  stupid  man;  though  young,  he  was 
a  quite  prominent  engineer ;  the  soldier  was  a  regu- 
lar and  a  gunner;  he  must  have  gone  to  the  Shop 
and  have  had  some  sort  of  intellectual  training. 
Yet  these  four  people,  when  Mrs.  Caldecot  arrived, 
were  talking  about  knitting,  and  the  engineer  tried 
to  pretend  he  knitted.  When  a  pause  occurred  and 
Mrs.  Caldecot  mentioned  some  topic  of  the  day,  the 
soldier,  almost  like  a  shying  horse,  resumed  the 
subject  of  knitting  as  if  he  were  terrified  by  the 
thought  that  something  might  be  said  which  would 
involve  an  opinion,  reveal  knowledge.  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot wondered  why  she  minded,  for  after  dinner  when 
the  conversation,  presumably  owing  to  a  regrettable 
accident,  touched  upon  the  unemployed,  the  engi- 
neer was  aggrieved  because  he  had  seen  a  procession 
of  unemployed  behind  the  Boy  Scouts'  band.  He 
felt  that  to  lead  the  unemployed  was  not  the  func- 

124 


A  VERY  GALLANT  LADY 

tion  of  the  Boy  Scouts.  The  affair  annoyed  him 
very  much.  They  were  all  bad  eggs  who'd  been 
tossed  out  of  the  army  after  a  month  as  not  being 
likely  to  make  efficient  soldiers.  The  other  man 
contributed  little  except  that  he  always  referred  to 
the  men  in  question  as  "the  so-called  unemployed." 
He  accompanied  this  with  smiles  indicating  that 
it  should  be  construed  as  a  witticism. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  agreed  with  their  point  of  view; 
she  was  a  Tory,  and  most  of  her  views  came  from 
Bob,  who  was  a  Tory  member  of  Parliament.  But 
he  had  a  different  way  of  looking  at  these  things. 
He  thought  that  unemployment  was  inevitable,  but 
at  least  he  had  some  sort  of  theory  on  the  subject 
and  thought  he  knew  why  it  was  inevitable;  he 
wanted,  within  the  limits  of  his  opinions,  to  do  what 
he  could  to  prevent  it  and  to  alleviate  unemploy- 
ment; he  took  it  seriously.  These  men  thought 
exactly  like  Bob,  except  that  they  didn't  think. 
They  paid  Bob  four  hundred  a  year  to  do  their 
political  thinking,  and  it  annoyed  her  to  find  them 
so  obtuse,  so  devoid  of  gravity.  It  was  that  sort  of 
thing  that  irritated  her  now  in  most  men.  From 
women  she  had  never  expected  anything  but  pleas- 
ant chatter  about  people  and  frocks;  from  Bob 
she  had  taken  all  the  mental  stimulus  she  wanted, 
while  other  men  appeared  merely  as  necessary 
splashes  of  black  and  white  at  parties,  creatures 
who  opened  doors  and  helped  you  into  cars  in  a 
masculine  way,  by  holding  you  under  the  arm  with 

125 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

which  you  were  trying  to  climb  in,  and  making  it 
almost  impossible  for  you  to  do  so. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  realized  now  that  Bob  had  to  her 
been  man,  and  that  all  these  people,  whom  she  didn't 
know  very  well,  and  who  were  trying  so  hard  not 
to  give  themselves  away,  were  not  supplying  her 
with  anything.  Well,  it  couldn't  be  helped.  It  was 
part  of  the  general  grayness  of  the  situation.  She 
must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  she  was  glad  in  a  way 
that  she  had  repulsed  Britford.  It  was  better  to 
live  without  any  man  at  all  than  with  a  man  who 
only  brought  out  by  contrast  with  another  his  own 
lack  of  charm.  She  had  no  quarrel  with  Stephen 
Britford ;  he  had  accepted  his  defeat  and  was  seeing 
her  now  and  then,  always  cool,  always  relentless,  no 
doubt,  but  she  feared  him  no  more.  She  saw  the 
future  a  little  more  clearly :  she  would  drug  herself 
with  small  pleasures,  waste  all  the  time  she  could, 
reveal  nothing  of  her  anguish  to  the  people  she  met. 
Perhaps  they  knew,  though  people  seemed  not  to  treat 
her  otherwise  than  they  did  before.  It  tortured  her 
at  first  to  think  that  lots  of  people  might  know,  that 
some  were  sorry,  that  some  were  glad  to  see  her  down, 
that  others,  like  Britford,  might  be  seeing  their 
chance  in  it,  and,  most  horrible  of  all,  that  she  was 
being  talked  of  at  teaparties,  that  some  people  were 
saying  she  was  taking  it  well,  and  others  wondering 
what  she  would  do.  Well,  let  them  talk ;  she'd  give 
them  no  help ;  she'd  neither  boast  her  immunity  nor 

seek  comfort.    She'd  live  silently,  and  she'd  live  alone. 

126 


CHAPTER  VII 

ALL  IS  OVER 

"WIT  THEN  Rodbourne  closed  the  door  of  the 
Y  y  garden  room  at  Cantrel  Court,  he  went 
along  the  corridor  very  slowly.  He  was  horribly 
upset,  for  he  knew  how  much  Mrs.  Caldecot  must 
be  suffering  in  that  room  where  he  had  left  her 
alone.  He  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  He  had  left 
her  there,  doubtless  weeping.  He  remembered,  and 
this  memory  hurt  him,  how  once  upon  a  time  he 
had  drawn  a  thorn  out  of  her  flesh  so  hard  that 
after  a  moment  she  gave  a  cry ;  he  looked  up  to  see 
the  face  that  had  been  set  suddenly  convulsed  and 
the  tears  coming.  Then  he  had  seized  her  in  his 
arms  and  begged  her  pardon  for  hurting  her.  She 
said :  "Don't  be  as  silly  as  I  am,  Bob.  Go  on,  you 
must  get  it  out."  But  after  the  thorn  came  out, 
while  again  she  was  laughing,  for  some  time  Rod- 
bourne  had  been  remorseful;  he  had  had  to  hurt 
her,  but  it  was  dreadful  to  have  hurt  her  at  all.  It 
was  just  like  that  to-day.  Now  again  he  had  had 
to  hurt  her,  without  being  able  to  help  it,  and  he 
could  not  comfort  her  as  once  he  had  done.  This 

wounded  his  masculine  pride.    If  he  had  hated  her, 

127 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

he  might  have  rejoiced  in  her  suffering,  but  he  still 
loved  her  in  his  way,  and  it  was  humiliating  to  think 
that  he  could  not,  with  a  caress  and  a  kind  word, 
as  men  do,  heal  her  again. 

"No,"  he  thought,  as  he  went  upstairs  to  his  bed- 
room. "I  can't  do  anything  for  her  now  except 
let  her  alone."  Then,  as  if  to  justify  himself:  "It's 
not  my  fault.  What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

He  stayed  in  his  bedroom  for  some  time,  though 
this  was  a  strange  thing  to  do  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  He  did  not  just  then  want  to  meet 
his  fellows.  He  wanted,  in  his  tidy  way,  to  sort 
out  the  situation  and  to  decide  what  to  do.  But 
there  was  no  situation  at  all  to  sort  out,  he  knew 
that.  Claire  had  thrown  him  up,  and  that  was  that. 
He  was  in  love  with  Patricia,  who  was  in  love  with 
him ;  he  was  to  propose  to  her  and  marry  her.  Noth- 
ing very  complicated  there,  but  he  was  troubled  by 
very  confused  emotions.  Now,  as  he  sat  in  an  arm 
chair,  chewing  a  pipestem  he  did  not  tell  himself 
that  he  still  loved  Claire  Caldecot,  but  he  did  not 
tell  himself  that  he  did  not  love  her ;  he  knew  that 
Patricia  drew  him  with  a  force  that  was  irresistible, 
but  yet  he  did  not  want  to  go  to  her  yet  and  make 
all  clear.  He  did  love  Patricia,  he  had  known  that 
for  several  days.  Also,  he  knew  that  often,  during 
the  last  year  or  two,  in  spite  of  her  beauty,  of  her 
intelligence,  something  had  seemed  lacking  in  Mrs. 
Caldecot.  She  had  a  way  of  being  tolerant  to  him 

which  annoyed  him;  she  had  too  many  memories, 

128 


ALL  IS  OVER 

had  met  too  many  people.  Also,  they  had  experi- 
enced so  much  together,  talked  so  much ;  he  had  no 
new  stories  for  her,  and  she  .  .  .  oh,  he  hated  to 
think  of  it,  he  knew  too  well  the  way  she  did  things, 
the  angle  of  her  head  as  she  wrote  a  note,  just  the 
smile  she  would  give  as  she  turned  her  head  when 
he  called  her,  j  ust  the  way  in  which  she  slowly  closed 
her  eyes  when  he  kissed  her,  and  exactly  the  scent, 
the  form  of  her  lips.  As  he  thought  of  this,  a  pite- 
ous sense  of  desolation  came  over  him :  he'd  lost  all 
those  dear,  intimate  things.  He  forgot  how  stale 
they  had  grown,  and  he  wanted  them  again;  from 
the  depth  of  his  being  rose  the  lover's  eternal  appeal, 
that  old  delights  be  made  new,  and  thrills  eternal. 
He  was  very  unhappy,  and  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do. 

Then  he  looked  up  and  down  his  room,  for  he 
saw  quite  well  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  that  was 
why  he  did  not  want  to  do  it.  Propose  to  Patricia ! 
He  rather  wanted  to  just  then.  It  was  not  only 
that  her  prettiness,  her  innocence  attracted  him, 
but  here  was  somebody  who  was  not  stale,  somebody 
who  would  surprise  him  by  her  gestures,  her  re- 
sponses ;  it  was  also  that  here  was  something  definite 
to  do.  If  he  engaged  himself  to  Patricia,  he  felt 
that  he  would  become  free  from  his  new  sense  of 
forlornness.  It  was  as  if  he  couldn't  be  without  a 
woman.  He  reviewed  Patricia;  he  recreated  in  his 
mind  the  small,  round  head  with  the  curly  hair,  the 

parted  pink  lips,  and  the  delicate  shape.     She  was 

129 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

very  moving,  and  at  that  moment  he  wanted  her.  It 
would  be  adorable.  She  was  the  girl  he  wanted  to 
end  his  life  with;  she  would  be  such  a  little  thing 
to  protect  and  look  after.  That  was  very  attrac- 
tive after  the  breadth,  the  strength  of  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot's  personality.  But  he  did  not  want  to  go  down- 
stairs, since  Patricia,  who  looked  so  upset,  would 
probably  be  in  her  bedroom.  He  wasn't  going  to 
own  up  to  himself  that  the  most  powerful  of  the 
influences  that  were  holding  him  back  was  that  he 
would  probably  have  asked  Patricia  to  be  his  wife 
if  there  had  been  no  Mrs.  Caldecot.  What  troubled 
him  was  not  Mrs.  Caldecot's  claim,  since  she  had 
resigned  it,  but  the  fact  that  she  told  him  to  go  to 
Patricia,  that  she  had  in  a  way  handed  him  over. 
He  confessed  this  to  himself  after  a  few  minutes, 
perhaps  not  quite  so  clearly  as  that.  He  put  it  to 
himself  that  he  wasn't  going  to  rush  into  this.  He 
rather  liked  to  think  of  himself  as  an  impetuous  man 
rushing  into  something,  and  this  helped  him  to  avoid 
the  realization  that  he  was  not  rushing,  but  being 
pushed. 

The  more  Rodbourne  thought  about  this,  the  more 
he  disliked  Patricia.  He  began  to  tell  himself  that 
after  all  he  wasn't  so  sure  as  all  that ;  he  even  tried 
to  outrage  his  consciousness  of  love  by  using  to 
himself  the  words  "gone  on  her."  He  was  afraid. 
He  was  trying  to  reduce  the  intensity  of  his  attrac- 
tion because  he  wanted  to  resist  it,  but  did  not  know 

why  he  wanted  to  resist  it.     Perhaps  because  he 

180 


ALL  IS  OVER 

wanted  to  succumb  to  it.  He  would  succumb,  no 
doubt,  because  he  wanted  to  resist,  in  a  sort  of 
reaction.  This  complicated  emotion  led  Rodbourne 
to  follow  an  entirely  different  idea.  It  was  very 
pleasing  to  have  an  idea  of  his  own,  and  it  was  this : 
he  was  awfully  hurt  by  the  way  Claire  had  behaved. 
He  knew  quite  well  that  she  had  every  reason  to 
get  angry  when  she  caught  him  kissing  Patricia,  but 
that  wasn't  reason  to  make  an  end  of  something 
that  had  been  going  on  for  eight  years,  just  like 
that,  in  five  minutes.  It  wasn't  fair.  That  sort 
of  thing  wasn't  done.  He  didn't  want  to  be  hard 
on  Claire,  so  he  wouldn't  bring  it  up  again,  but 
he  was  hurt.  He  wouldn't  have  thought  she'd  have 
behaved  like  that.  Dash  it  all !  she  knew  what  men 
were!  She  wasn't  a  kid.  And  she  didn't  let  him 
explain,  didn't  give  him  a  chance,  just  made  a 
scene  and  smashed  everything.  It  wasn't  his  fault. 
It  did  not  then  strike  Rodbourne  that  anything 
might  be  his  fault,  for  he  was  entirely  masculine; 
the  more  he  meditated,  the  more  he  saw  himself  as 
injured  and  misunderstood  by  both  women.  By 
degrees  this  transmuted  itself  into  a  sense  of  his 
own  nobility.  It  was  a  pity  to  be  misunderstood, 
but  in  such  a  world  it  was  to  be  expected.  Well,  the 
only  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  go  back  to  town 
and  to  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  After 
all,  he  was  very  comfortable  in  Whitehall  Court, 
and  he  had  lots  to  keep  him  busy.  The  session 

was  going  to  be  very  heavy.    Besides,  he'd  get  about 

131 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

a  bit.  Might  have  some  fun.  He  smiled  as  he 
reflected  that,  after  all,  liberty  is  worth  something ; 
very  vaguely,  a  world  of  women  unfolded  itself  be- 
fore him,  exciting,  stimulating.  He  might  dance 
a  bit  more  than  he  had  done  lately.  He'd  have  more 
time,  in  a  way,  instead  of  almost  every  day  having 
an  appointment  that  clashed  with  another  one.  By 
the  time  these  meditations  came  to  an  end,  Rod- 
bourne  had  attained  a  rather  satisfied  state  of  mind. 
There  ran  through  it  some  forlornness,  but  it  was 
mainly  excitement.  He  did  not  then  think  that  his 
parting  with  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  final,  but  he  wasn't 
going  to  do  anything.  If  she  made  the  first  move 
he'd  be  decent  about  it.  Damn  it  all !  he  was  very 
fond  of  her,  and  after  a  scene  like  that  they  might 
call  quits.  He  was  rather  misty  as  to  his  future 
with  Mrs.  Caldecot,  combined  with  stimulating  ex- 
periences. And  Patricia  muddled  things  somehow, 
but  Rodbourne's  main  attitude  was  that  henceforth 
he  wasn't  going  to  stand  much  from  anybody. 

When,  however,  he  went  downstairs  again,  he 
retired  to  the  garage  in  a  sort  of  despair  to  see 
the  car  towed  out ;  after  a  melancholy  lunch,  where 
to  his  embarrassment  both  Patricia  and  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot appeared,  both  calm,  perfectly  polite,  but  rather 
silent  and  looking  so  ill  that  it  was  almost  rude,  he 
felt  so  uncomfortable  that  he  went  out  immediately 
after  lunch.  Really,  this  was  a  bit  too  thick.  They 
looked  like  a  pair  of  ghosts,  and  Mrs.  Headcorn 

noticed  nothing  at  all,  the  great,  fat  porpoise.  Jolly 

132 


ALL  IS  OVER 

good  thing  he  was  going  next  day ;  he  couldn't  stand 
much  more  of  this  sort  of  thing.  Soon  after,  he 
left  the  house  under  a  rain  which  decrepitated  on 
his  mackintosh ;  he  continued  to  tell  himself  that  this 
sort  of  thing  was  a  damn  shame.  A  profound  con- 
viction of  the  well-bred  Englishman  matured  in  him ; 
these  women  really  ought  to  keep  up  appearances. 
But  the  walk  was  very  long  and  very  wet.  He 
drank  abominable  tea,  and  ate  bread  and  margarine 
in  a  public  house.  He  discovered  what  he  had  sus- 
pected: that  his  right  foot  was  very  wet  because 
there  was  a  hole  in  the  sole.  On  the  way  back  bits 
of  grit  got  through  the  hole  and  hurt  him.  As  it 
was  growing  dark,  he  was  not  sure  of  his  way;  he 
was  directed  to  a  short  cut  by  a  well-meaning 
laborer,  who  apparently  did  not  know  the  difference 
between  his  right  and  his  left  hand.  Finally,  Rod- 
bourne  arrived  at  Cantrel  Court  at  half-past  six, 
drenched,  miserable,  inclined  to  think  that  the  world 
was  a  rotten  place.  Everybody  had  a  rotten  time. 
He  included  in  this  Mrs.  Caldecot,  who  had  pre- 
occupied him  more  than  Patricia,  presumably  be- 
cause the  walk  was  so  wet  that  it  disposed  him  to 
sorrow,  rather  than  to  the  febrile  expectations 
represented  by  Patricia.  So,  because  he  was  so  wet, 
he  changed  at  once,  and  after  a  hesitation  came 
downstairs  half  an  hour  before  dinner.  Contentedly, 
he  sat  down  by  the  fire  with  the  lunch  edition  of  a 
London  evening  paper.  He  felt  very  comfortable  in 

dry  clothes.     Also,  there  was  a  queer  bit  of  news 

133 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

about  a  split  in  the  opposition.  He  didn't  believe  it, 
but  this  thing  was  coming  up  again  and  again.  He 
decided  to  ring  up  next  day  a  certain  j  ournalist  who 
was  supposed  to  know  about  these  things.  It  was  then 
that  Mrs.  Caldecot  came  into  the  drawing-room. 

She  had  spent  all  the  afternoon  alternating  be- 
tween a  mood  of  despair,  which  bade  her  go  and  lie 
down  on  her  bed  and  stay  there,  and  a  mood  of  cour- 
age, when  she  talked  to  Mrs.  Headcorn  and  even  to 
Patricia.  Perhaps  she  didn't  like  her  so  much  as 
she  had  done  before ;  she  was  less  aware  of  the  girl's 
charm  and  of  her  prettiness;  indeed,  she  found  it 
difficult  to  discover  what  Bob  saw  in  the  child,  until 
she  told  herself  with  a  smile  that  one  seldom  under- 
stood why  lovers  should  select  each  other.  No,  she 
didn't  like  her,  but  she  didn't  dislike  her.  Patricia 
had  become  to  her  a  sort  of  natural  fact  which  leaves 
one  neutral.  Bob  loved  this  girl;  well,  there  was 
nothing  more  to  say  about  it ;  he  did.  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot's  emotions  had  by  that  time  grown  a  little  vague. 
She  was  no  longer  capable  of  feeling  very  intensely ; 
some  time  would  have  to  elapse  before  the  strained 
cords  of  her  emotions  could  again  be  made  to 
vibrate.  Besides,  Patricia  helped  because  she  did 
not  have  the  drilled  courage  of  the  older  woman ;  she 
went  upstairs,  and  did  not  come  down  again  until 
nearly  dinner  time,  pleading  a  headache.  Mrs. 
Headcorn  said  she  must  on  no  account  be  disturbed, 
but  went  up  with  remedies  three  times  in  four  hours, 
and  once  with  tea. 

134 


ALL  IS  OVER 

It  was  probably  the  mood  of  courage  which 
brought  Mrs.  Caldecot  down  so  early.  As  she 
dressed,  she  shrank  from  the  idea  that  once  again 
she  must  meet  Bob,  try  to  be  pleasant,  try  to  be 
easy ;  again  she  was  tempted  to  miss  dinner,  but  she 
told  herself  that  it  wasn't  fair  to  May.  Patricia 
seemed  so  upset:  perhaps  she  wouldn't  come  down, 
and  it  would  be  rather  hard  on  May  if  two  of  her 
visitors  abstained,  for  she  was  giving  a  little  dinner 
that  evening,  and  two  people  were  coming  in.  "No," 
thought  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "it  won't  do.  I've  got  to 
play  the  game."  To  demonstrate  to  herself  that 
she  was  not  going  to  shirk,  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  ready 
at  twenty  to  eight;  finding  Rodbourne  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  fire,  she  did  not  perceptibly  hesitate, 
but  went  straight  up  to  the  hearth,  and  sat  down, 
asking  him  evenly  if  there  was  any  news. 

"Nothing  much,"  said  Rodbourne,  awkwardly. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  hesitated.  She  wanted  to  be  nor- 
mal, but  this  was  very  difficult.  So  she  pressed  him : 
"No  gossip?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  sort  of  thing,"  he  replied,  ungra- 
ciously, as  he  realized  her  effort.  "They  say  Chale 
is  going  to  resign,  but  as  you  know  they've  been 
saying  that  for  the  last  three  months." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "but  it  might  be  true 
this  time.  And  you  know,  it's  just  possible  that  it 
might  be  worth  your  while." 

"My  dear  Claire,"  replied  Rodbourne  in  the  cool 

tone  which  he  employed  to  her  when  she  did  not 
10  135 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

agree  with  him,  "you  know  quite  well  that  Chale 
is  only  playing  for  the  Cabinet,  and  if  I  run  myself 
into  the  Harbor  Office  I'll  get  stuck  there  until  the 
next  election,  and  who's  to  know  what'll  happen  in 
the  mix-up?  I  might  lose  my  seat." 

"Oh  don't  be  so  silly,  Bob,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  for 
a  moment  forgetting  what  had  happened,  and  resum- 
ing her  old  role.  "I  know  it  was  I  prevented  you  tak- 
ing the  Undersecretaryship  before,  but  times  have 
changed.  You  know  quite  well  that  only  a  week  ago 
Fitzwater  Ingham  told  Arabella,  who  told  me.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  told  me,"  said  Rodbourne  savagely, 
"and  told  me  every  day  that  if  only  I'd  be  a  dummy 
for  a  few  months  they'd  give  me  a  sugar  stick  like 
a  nice  little  boy." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  with  an  air  of  superi- 
ority. "You  only  have  to  be  a  dummy  until  Doon 
takes  a  peerage." 

"He  won't." 

"My  dear  boy,  he  will." 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"The  Liberal  candidate  in  his  division  is  retiring. 
So  all  the  malcontents  will  vote  Labor,  just  to  get 
Doon  out,  and  Doon  will  go  down.  He  knows  what 
is  coming  as  well  as  we  do :  so  he'll  take  a  peerage 
to  avoid  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Rodbourne,  thoughtfully,  "there  might 
be  something  in  that."  Then,  as  always  in  such  dis- 
cussions, he  smiled  and  said :  "You're  not  so  use- 
less after  all." 

186 


ALL  IS  OVER 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  reply,  for  this  brought 
her  back  to  the  world  of  the  day,  so  different  from 
the  world  of  the  day  before.  She  wanted  to  say: 
"What's  the  use?  I  can't  help  you  now."  But  it 
was  so  dreadful,  and  she  did  not  want  her  voice  to 
tremble.  So  Rodbourne  went  on  looking  at  her, 
disturbed  now  as  her  silence  recalled  to  him  the  new 
situation.  He  felt  clumsy;  besides,  now  that  she 
sat  before  him  under  the  rose-shaded  light,  she 
looked  different.  Very  beautiful.  He  did  not  know 
what  pains  she  had  taken  over  herself  during  the 
last  half-hour;  he  did  not  realize  that  she  had  ex- 
pended artifice  on  the  rose  of  her  cheeks,  on  the 
ordering  of  her  hair,  on  bringing  out  with  a  touch 
of  blue  the  mellow  fullness  of  her  eyelids,  which  now 
like  faintly  crumpled  crepe  de  Chine  made  two 
mauve  zones  of  flesh  upon  whose  moist  and  scented 
warmth  he  wanted  to  press  his  lips.  Still  she  did 
not  speak ;  still  sat,  firm  hands  negligent  upon  her 
lap.  Her  quietness  exasperated  him  into  activity. 
As  he  bent  forward  he  murmured,  hoarsely :  "Claire, 
don't  let's  be  fools.  Let's  wash  out  this  morning." 

She  did  not  reply,  she  could  not,  for  she  was  hor- 
ribly tempted  to  hold  on  to  this  interest  as  well  as 
to  this  old  love.  So  again  he  pleaded:  "I  know  I 
offended  you,  but  the  girl  means  nothing  to  me. 
It's  you,  only  you.  Won't  you?"  and,  putting  out 
a  hesitating  hand,  he  took  hers. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Caldecot  submitted.  She  even 
slowly  threaded  her  fingers  through  his,  but  as  en- 

137 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

couraged  he  stood  up  to  take  her  into  his  arms,  she 
saw  him  look  to  the  right  and  left.  She  did  not 
mind  his  prudence ;  he  owed  her  that,  but  his  glance 
recalled  to  her  the  morning's  scene,  unchained  the 
train  of  thought  which  it  had  bred.  No,  it  couldn't 
be.  Dreams  might  be  the  stuff  that  worlds  are 
made  of,  but  one  couldn't  make  a  new  world  out  of 
an  old  dream.  So,  quite  gently,  she  pressed  a  hand 
against  his  shoulder  and  pushed  him  away. 

The  mood  of  courage  was  still  upon  her  at  dinner, 
where  she  had  to  meet  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trent,  who 
lived  a  few  miles  away,  at  Burleigh  Abbas.  Just  as 
she  had  that  evening  done  all  she  could  to  enhance 
her  beauty,  so  now  did  she  labor  to  exhibit  her 
social  graces,  to  laugh  at  Mr.  Trent's  elderly  jokes, 
to  grow  interested  in  Mrs.  Trent's  daughter,  Isabel 
Quadring,  a  social  leader  of  whom  she  had  heard  a 
few  hints  which  she  did  not  impart  to  Mrs.  Trent. 
It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Trent  had  another  daughter 
called  Ursula,  as  to  whom  her  mother  was  indefinite. 
Mrs.  Caldecot  was  quick-minded  enough  to  tell  her- 
self that  Mrs.  Trent  had  no  luck  with  her  daughters. 
So  she  laughed  and  induced  conversation,  was  mod- 
estly racy,  and  watchful  to  assist  Mrs.  Headcorn 
in  dragging  into  the  conversation  anybody  who  tried 
to  find  time  to  eat.  She  succeeded  almost  entirely, 
for  a  sort  of  despair  seemed  to  have  seized  Rod- 
bourne,  who  on  the  top  of  his  sherry  was  drinking 
claret  at  the  rate  of  two  glasses  for  every  course. 

After  a  period  of  sulkiness  he  had  begun  to  talk  to 

138 


ALL  IS  OVER 

Patricia,  who  was  the  only  one  whom  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  could  not  quite  move.  But  enough  noise  was 
made  to  cover  her  silence,  and  later,  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Mrs.  Trent  occupied  herself  with  the  girl, 
taking  a  gentle  interest  in  mutual  friends  and  mak- 
ing her  almost  tearful  by  recommending  marriage 
for  everybody  to  anybody  as  quickly  as  possible. 

When  the  men  came  in,  and  it  was  decided  to  play 
bridge  because  everybody  knew  that  otherwise  they'd 
be  bored  before  a  quarter  to  eleven,  Patricia  at  once 
declared  that  she  was  tired  and  wouldn't  play. 
There  was  a  determined  scramble  over  the  making 
up  of  the  four;  everybody  offered  to  stand  out; 
Mrs.  Caldecot  proving  the  most  obstinate,  while  Mr. 
Trent  wanted  to  cut  out.  But  suddenly  she  noticed 
that  Rodbourne  was  not  protesting;  she  realized 
that  he  wanted  to  play,  that  he  was  nervous  of 
Patricia.  A  sort  of  rage  came  upon  her.  Until 
then  she  had  wanted  to  survive ;  now  she  wanted  to 
precipitate  her  defeat.  She  wouldn't  have  him  shirk, 
and  so  strong  was  her  determination  that  when  she 
took  the  pack  the  four  submitted.  With  a  little 
laugh  she  shuffled,  and  then  cut.  She  replaced  the 
pack  so  quickly  that  nobody  noticed  that  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pack  the  cut  had  yielded  a  king.  She 
spread  the  cards  upon  the  table,  and  all  drew,  but 
she  managed  for  a  second  to  get  into  Rodbourne's 
way;  as  she  herself  drew  she  pushed  toward  Rod- 
bourne  two  cards  of  which  the  king  was  uppermost ; 

he  of  course  picked  it  up.     He  was  highest.    After 

139 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

a  few  protests  against  leaving  out  one  of  the  two 
men,  the  four  sat  down  to  play,  and  Rodbourne 
was  forced  by  custom  to  go  and  talk  to  the  odd  girl. 

The  two  did  not  at  first  say  very  much.  Rod- 
bourne  was  looking  over  a  book  of  views  of  Venice, 
in  which  Rodbourne  had  to  interest  himself.  They 
talked  vaguely  of  Venice,  Italy,  places  which  Patri- 
cia had  not  visited.  They  made  uninteresting  re- 
marks upon  the  weather,  and  hoped  that  it  would  be 
fine  next  day.  Rodbourne  by  degrees  grew  exasper- 
ated by  the  girl's  silence,  for  she  answered  him  only 
"yes"  and  "no,"  or  "do  you  think  so?"  At  that 
moment  he  did  not  like  her  very  much,  but  at  last, 
as  she  felt  that  he  was  forcing  her,  as  she  thought 
there  must  be  something  false  in  this  interest,  she 
looked  up  at  him.  There  was  so  much  uncertainty, 
unhappiness  in  the  bright  blue  eyes,  that  he,  too, 
suddenly  grew  silent.  That  look  seemed  to  say  to 
him:  "Why  do  you  torture  me?  Why  have  you 
done  me  some  harm  I  don't  understand?  You,  a 
man,  to  a  little  girl  like  me?"  He  felt  guilty,  and 
glanced  toward  the  bridge  table  to  see  if  their 
confusion  was  observed,  but  fortunately  at  Cantrel 
Court  bridge  was  played  on  the  lines  of  a  bargain 
sale,  in  the  midst  of  controversy  and  denunciation ; 
mistakes  two  hands  old  were  dragged  out  and  flung 
into  the  new  one.  Also,  Mr.  Trent  all  the  time  told 
his  wife  what  he  thought  of  her. 

So  the  silence  of  the  couple  on  the  sofa  was  not 

observed,  but  it  troubled  them  both  all  the  same, 

140 


ALL  IS  OVER 

and  the  man,  unable  to  find  anything  to  talk  of, 
was  nervously  divided  between  the  wet  weather  and 
hopes  of  the  morrow. 

"I  think  it's  clearing  up,"  he  said,  looking  toward 
the  window.  "I  think  I  see  the  moon."  Obediently, 
Patricia  looked  toward  the  embrasure  where  the 
window  was  set.  "Yes,"  said  Rodbourne,  getting  up. 
"I  don't  think  it's  raining."  He  went  toward  the 
window;  as  if  drawn  by  habit  of  response  rather 
than  by  desire,  Patricia  followed  him.  They  were 
thus  slightly  isolated,  for  the  embrasure  jutted  for- 
ward about  three  feet;  for  a  moment  they  stayed 
there  together,  looking  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night  where  the  skyline  was  indicated  only  by  a 
darkness  almost  as  great.  They  were  disturbed 
and  did  not  know  how  to  end  their  disturbance. 
Each  wanted  to  speak,  and  each  was  afraid  of 
saying  something  that  mattered.  So  for  some 
moments  the  tension  grew,  until  at  last  the  man, 
more  active,  more  impatient,  had  to  speak :  "I  say, 
they'll  be  hours  over  their  rubber.  Nobody's  got  a 
game  yet.  They're  making  such  a  noise." 

"Yes,  they  are  rather,"  said  Patricia,  "and  I've 
got  such  a  headache." 

"Well,"  said  Rodbourne,  hesitating,  "let's  .  .  . 
why  not  go  into  the  garden  room  for  a  moment?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Do  come.    There's  a  fire." 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  to  bed,"  said  Patricia. 
As  she  said  this  she  moved  him.  She  was  so  pretty 

141 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

that  night.  She  wore  the  sort  of  little  frock  which 
the  dressmaker  at  Plymouth  supplies  to  the  back- 
woods of  the  county,  a  silly  little  frock  of  cream 
muslin,  much  too  high  both  at  the  back  and  in 
front.  And  she  had  run  something  that  looked  like 
silver  tape  round  the  decolletage,  giving  a  final 
touch  of  chastity  to  the  skirt  by  interspersing  rose- 
buds in  the  ruche  at  the  bottom.  And  yet  it  wasn't 
hideous.  It  was  innocent,  childish.  The  cream 
enhanced  the  whiteness  of  the  skin;  the  high  decol- 
letage brought  out  the  slimness  of  the  neck.  She 
stood  before  him,  her  head  a  little  thrown  back, 
so  very  helpless  that  he  felt  once  more  that  desire 
to  protect  and  make  her  happy.  So  strong  did  this 
grow  that  rather  roughly  he  said  again: 

"Come  along,"  and  she  followed  him. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  the  garden  room  Patricia 
sat  down  before  the  fire,  her  hands  clasped  about 
her  knees,  and  stared  into  the  flames.  Rodtourne 
did  not  sit  down.  He  stood  by  her  side,  looking 
at  the  downcast,  curly  head.  She  did  not  move, 
this  little  figure,  and  the  writhing  flames  flung 
orange  shadows  upon  the  smooth  arms.  She  was 
such  a  little  thing,  and  he  was  immensely  tempted 
to  bend  down  suddenly  and  press  his  lips  upon  her 
neck,  just  where  the  dark  tendrils  of  hair  shaded 
into  down.  Yes,  he  could  do  that,  reconquer  her. 
It  was  intensely  moving,  this  desire  of  his,  and  he 
remembered  the  cool,  unscented  contact  of  her  fresh 

mouth.     But  he  was  afraid;  he  wanted  to  conquer 

142 


ALL  IS  OVER 

her  and  yet  not  to;  he  shrank  from  decisive  ges- 
tures, for  he  had  that  day  experienced  too  much 
emotion.  So  he  thought:  "Can't  go  on  like  this. 
Must  say  something."  But  he  could  not  find  any- 
thing to  say;  all  active  ideas  were  in  him  obliter- 
ated by  his  blind  desire  to  obtain  once  more  from 
her  the  caresses  which  would  make  him  forget,  which 
would  snatch  him  up  into  a  world  of  excitement, 
make  nothing  of  prudence,  disperse  loyalty,  and  pro- 
vide the  exquisite  moment  which  he  might  bid  tarry. 
Still  Patricia  did  not  move;  her  attitude  sug- 
gested that  she  was  worn  out,  that  she  had  lived 
that  day  in  a  turmoil  of  excitement  which  her 
slight  physique  and  her  emotional  experience  were 
unfit  to  meet.  She  sat  there  as  if  wretched  and 
astray,  not  knowing  what  had  been  done  to  her, 
and  miserable  in  this  ignorance.  The  attitude  was 
so  pronounced  that  Rodbourne  understood  it.  The 
girl  was  exhausted,  but  now  it  was  not  pity  that  he 
felt,  nor  protective  desire;  it  pleased  him  to  think 
that  he  had  brought  her  to  this  point,  that  it  was 
love  for  him  reduced  her;  his  understanding  made 
her  his.  So,  as  if  to  consecrate  his  triumph,  to 
make  it  manifest  to  himself,  he  suddenly  gave  way 
to  that  temptation.  Throwing  his  arms  round  the 
slim  body  he  pressed  his  lips  just  where  he  had 
aimed  his  eyes,  upon  the  slim  bent  neck.  As  the 
first  physical  excitement  passed  away  he  expected 
her  either  to  struggle  or  to  respond,  but  not  to 
stay,  her  head  still  bent,  her  hands  still  unstirred, 

143 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

as  if  she  were  saying  to  him :  "Kiss  me  if  you  want 
to;  it  doesn't  matter."  His  male  pride  revolted 
against  this.  Needing  to  affirm  himself,  he  drew 
her  to  her  feet,  and,  holding  her  close,  tried  to  reach 
her  lips.  But  here  the  distraction  of  innocence 
intervened:  Patricia  drew  back  as  if  afraid  and 
turned  her  head  away. 

"Why  not?"  he  whispered. 

"Don't.     Let  me  go.     Please." 

"I  won't  let  you  go.    Not  now.    Or  ever." 

"Let  me  go,  please.  You  know  you  don't  mean 
it."  Her  voice  was  so  cold  that  he  released  her. 
But  as  she  made  a  movement  toward  the  door  he 
intercepted  her.  Now  indeed  he  wanted  her,  and 
was  certain  that  he  must  not  let  her  go;  if  she 
went  now  she  went  entirely.  The  girl  stopped, 
looked  at  him  without  fear,  made  safe  by  the  hard- 
ness of  youth:  "Please  don't  do  that,"  she  said. 
"I  want  to  go." 

He  snatched  her  hand.  "Look  here,"  he  said. 
"I'm  not  surprised  you're  angry.  It's  my  fault. 
I  was  a  fool  this  morning.  But  I  want  you  to 
marry  me." 

She  stared  at  him.  Then,  after  a  pause :  "I  don't 
believe  it." 

"But,  good  heavens,  why  not?  Is  it  because  I 
kissed  you  before?  .  .  ." 

"Oh  no,  of  course  not,"  as  if  she  were  tired  of 
explaining.  "Of  course  it  isn't  that.  Only  you 
don't  love  me." 

144 


ALL  IS  OVER 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Rodbourne.  "I'm  asking  you 
to  marry  me.  Don't  you  understand  ?" 

"Do  you  love  me  ?" 

"Of  course  I  love  you.  Aren't  you  going  to 
answer  me?" 

She  hesitated.  Already  he  had  great  power  over 
her,  this  tall,  fair  man,  but  she  was  suspicious  of 
something  she  could  not  define;  something  stood 
between  and  separated  them.  She  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  but  her  instinct,  the  unconscious  obser- 
vations she  must  have  made  during  the  week,  all 
these  held  the  two  apart.  He  was  not  moving  her, 
and  all  she  wanted  was  to  get  away.  But  suddenly 
Rodbourne  said  in  a  new,  veiled  voice:  "And  you? 
Do  you  love  me?" 

At  these  words,  for  which  she  was  unprepared, 
a  sudden  terror  came  over  the  girl.  They  terrified 
her  because  they  forced  her  to  view  herself,  to 
realize  the  irresistible  impulse  that  was  dragging 
her  toward  the  man  whom,  she  didn't  know  why, 
she  felt  she  couldn't  get.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
there  in  conflict.  Then,  as  she  acknowledged  to 
herself  her  degrading  state,  an  immense  pity  for 
herself  seized  her»  Flinging  herself  upon  the  sofa, 
she  wept,  hiding  her  eyes  with  one  hand  and  search- 
ing stupidly  for  her  handkerchief.  Rodbourne 
flung  his  arms  round  her,  murmuring  words  of  com- 
fort, of  apology  and  love;  now  and  then,  he  for- 
got his  sympathy  to  cover  with  kisses  the  flushed 
cheek,  to  seek  the  lips  that  did  not  resist ;  he  tried 

145 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

to  tear  from  the  weeping  eyes  the  trembling  hand. 
When  she  had  ceased  to  cry,  again  he  strove  to 
force  her  promise,  but  Patricia  was  exhausted  and 
would  not  answer  him.  He  realized  at  last  that 
if  he  tortured  her  any  more  he  would  only  bring 
on  another  fit  of  tears.  So,  in  a  good-humored 
tone,  he  said :  "Look  here,  I  don't  know  what's  the 
matter;  you're  upset,  but  it's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 
She  did  not  reply.  "You  do  understand  it'll  be  all 
right,  don't  you?"  She  nodded.  "Well,  I  won't 
trouble  you  any  more.  We're  all  going  back  to- 
morrow. May  I  come  and  see  you  there?" 

"If  you  like." 

"All  right.  I  suppose  we'd  better  go  baek."  As 
she  got  up  he  took  her  hand,  hesitating  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  her  frightened  eyes  forbade  an  embrace, 
so  he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  for  a  second 
considered  the  thin,  rosy  fingers.  She  remained 
calm,  only  half-conscious  that  he  was  going  to  kiss 
her  hand.  But  as  he  gently  turned  it  palm  upward, 
and  there  in  its  warm,  scented  hollow  pressed  a 
heavy  caress,  as  he  molded  her  lax  fingers  about 
his  chin,  her  childish  coldness  revolted  and  she  pulled 
her  hand  away. 

It  was  on  impulse,  because  he  had  not  at  the 
moment  been  able  to  let  her  go,  that  Rodbourne 
had  asked  leave  to  call  on  Patricia  in  town.  Just 
then,  with  his  emotions  stirred,  he  had  only  wanted 
to  see  her  again  by  herself,  to  make  her  understand 

and  to  gain  her.     He  was  surprised  when,  a  few 

146 


ALL  IS  OVER 

days  later,  he  found  himself  involved  in  an  ordinary 
courtship.  He  did  not  perceive  it  at  first,  for  the 
day  he  came  to  tea  at  the  house  in  Old  Quebec 
Street,  which  Mrs.  Neale  had  taken  for  three  months, 
another  man  was  already  there,  and  later  several 
people  came  in.  He  had  no  chance  to  talk  to 
Patricia,  because  her  mother  left  her  to  do  the 
pouring  out  for  the  small  party.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Neale 
quite  embarrassed  him  by  devoting  to  him  too  much 
personal  attention.  For  Mrs.  Neale  was  only  thirty- 
nine,  and  still  very  pretty,  slim  brunette,  quite 
unlike  her  daughter,  more  vivacious  and  far  better 
dressed.  All  these  facts  were  forced  upon  Rod- 
bourne  because  he  was  no  longer  the  enthusiastic 
young  man  who  saw  perfection  only  in  the  object 
of  his  passion.  Indeed,  that  afternoon,  after  chat- 
ter of  plays,  golf,  and  the  latest  book  of  memoirs, 
wasting  an  hour  on  the  sweepings  of  ideas  which 
make  up  London  conversation,  he  went  away  rather 
irritated.  Patricia  had  not  said  much.  Too  busy, 
no  doubt,  but  it  annoyed  him.  Only  once  had  she 
done  anything  personal.  At  something  he  said, 
and  it  wasn't  brilliant,  she  had  remained  holding 
up  the  sugar  tongs,  looking  at  him  intently;  then 
she  had  blushed,  as  if  at  her  own  thought,  and 
this  had  moved  him. 

So  it  developed  into  an  ordinary  courtship,  into 
the  usual  vanquishing  of  social  difficulties.  First 
he  lunched  at  the  house;  then  he  met  Patricia 
at  the  dance ;  then,  as  the  normal  progress  will  have 

147 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

it,  he  went  to  a  dance  because  she  had  told  him  she 
would  be  there.  He  took  her  to  see  some  pictures 
one  afternoon,  and  felt  ridiculous,  vaguely  afraid  of 
being  seen  and  pointed  at,  he  a  man  nearly  forty 
years  old  with  a  girl  half  his  age.  Also,  somehow,  he 
wasn't  progressing ;  it  was  as  if  his  critical  sense  of 
Patricia's  girlish  imperfections  held  him  back.  Seen 
like  this*  among  London  women,  some  of  them  so 
perfectly  worked  in  white,  black,  and  crimson,  so 
assured,  with  their  voices  so  definitely  placed  when 
uttering  definite  points  of  view,  she  seemed  .  .  . 
provincial.  She  was  shy,  and  he  hated  her  being 
shy,  though  he  would  have  hated  her  bold.  Some- 
times, when  he  thought  of  themselves  married,  he 
told  himself  that  would  be  all  right.  She  wouldn't 
be  shy  then,  and  she'd  learn  to  wear  her  clothes. 
He'd  put  that  right,  go  to  the  dressmaker  with  her, 
and  tell  her  the  things  to  say,  and  help  her  to  be- 
have. It  was  very  fascinating,  that  sort  of  day- 
dream, and  he  liked  to  picture  himself  going  to  her 
bedroom  in  the  morning,  sitting  on  the  bed,  and  ex- 
plaining to  her  the  contents  of  the  newspaper.  Only 
one  detail  interfered  with  that  particular  vision :  the 
occasional  recurrence  of  a  rather  similar  scene, 
where  the  head  upon  the  pillow  was  black  and 
smooth  instead  of  curly  brown. 

He  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Caldecot  again.  A  month 
had  passed,  and  they  had  exchanged  no  letters, 
though  often  he  had  needed  her,  had  been  puzzled  to 

decide  some  point  where  her  instinct  would  have  been 

148 


ALL  IS  OVER 

helpful.  But  he  had  maintained  his  offended  mood. 
He  had  been  ill-treated,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  take 
the  first  step.  Now  and  then  his  isolation  almost 
overwhelmed  his  pride.  For  such  a  long  time  he 
had  had  by  his  side  a  woman  to  love  him,  who 
understood  his  temperament,  knew  all  his  affairs, 
and  was  fit  to  consult.  He  needed  a  woman,  if  only 
to  hold  a  woman's  hand  and  gain  a  sort  of  lucidity 
from  the  contact.  He  couldn't  get  that  from  Pa- 
tricia, though  he  did  love  her,  love  her  as  a  man 
does,  as  something  to  own.  When  he  talked  poli- 
tics to  her,  she  always  agreed  with  him;  of  course 
he  wanted  woman  to  agree  with  him,  but  not  so 
easily.  Rather  than  a  woman  to  agree  with,  he 
wanted  a  woman  to  convince.  Patricia  didn't  know 
anything.  Of  course,  she  would  when  they  were 
married ;  he'd  educate  her  and  make  quite  a  different 
woman  of  her.  That  was  charming,  and  he  liked 
to  dream  of  these  initiations,  but  meanwhile  he 
needed  a  woman  so  badly  that,  suddenly,  without 
knowing  how  it  happened,  he  had  a  shameful  little 
adventure  in  the  street,  the  sort  of  thing  he  hadn't 
done  for  twenty  years. 

It  was  this  probably  that  brought  him  closer  to 
Patricia,  a  sort  of  remorse,  a  sense  of  defilement. 
She  seemed  so  pure  and  waxlike  after  the  strident 
night.  He  nearly  repeated  his  proposal  that  after- 
noon. He  had  taken  her  to  a  matinee,  and  as  neither 
was  dining  out,  they  had  time  to  waste  and  walked 
home  through  the  Park.  The  sun  had  not  yet  set, 

149 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

but  the  twilight  was  falling  like  golden  gauze,  cut 
up  by  the  buds  that  shone  like  jade  on  the  sooty 
branches  of  the  trees.  As  they  went,  the  girl, 
excited  by  the  play,  talked  disjointedly  of  people 
they  knew,  of  the  actor  who  had  played  the  comic 
butler,  whom  Patricia  would  like  to  take  back  to 
Wrayf ord ;  he  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  her  youth, 
with  her  unformed  quality,  and  he  delighted  in  it. 
Some  question,  now  their  familiarity  was  established, 
caused  Patricia  to  let  out  with  a  laugh  a  little 
secret:  it  wasn't  wonderful  that  Mrs.  Neale 
troubled  so  little  about  her  daugher.  Mrs.  Neale 
wasn't  exactly  engaged,  but  she  did  have  a  lean- 
ing toward  .  .  . 

"Not  Chris  ?"  asked  Rodbourne,  laughing. 

"Yes,"  said  Patricia.  "It  seems  funny,  but 
everybody  calls  him  Chris.  After  all,  why  not? 
He's  not  fifty,  and  if  I  must  have  a  stepfather,  he's 
rather  a  dear." 

Rodbourne  did  not  reply  until  they  reached  the 
Park,  for  they  were  crossing  Hyde  Park  Corner 
and  he  enclosed  in  one  hand  the  slim  forearm. 

"Why  not  ?"  he  said,  a  little  later,  as  he  pictured 
the  smart  though  rather  stout  clubman  whom  every- 
body called  Chris,  which  was  a  tribute  to  his  ami- 
ability. But  he  said  no  more,  for  this  talk  of 
marriage  embarrassed  him.  They  passed  Stanhope 
Gate  before  they  spoke  again,  and  Patricia  felt 
awkward  because  she  could  think  of  no  chatter. 

As  they  went  on  Rodbourne  was  telling  himself: 

150 


ALL  IS  OVER 

"She's  adorable.  I  don't  think  I'd  like  to  have  her 
different."  In  that  moment  he  liked  her  imperfect 
clothes,  her  modest  gaze,  her  hesitations,  he  told 
himself  opposite  Aldford  House,  while  he  was 
thinking  of  a  way  to  put  it.  He  became  agitated 
as  they  approached  Marble  Arch,  for  he  didn't  want 
to  be  blunt.  Just  as  he  was  going  to  speak,  he 
observed  a  set  of  two  couples  upon  a  bench,  close 
embraced,  and  quite  careless  of  each  other.  He 
thought:  "I  can't  say  it  here.  It  seems  so  undig- 
nified." Then  Patricia  did  the  silly  thing  that  girls 
do  out  of  nervousness.  She  glanced  sideways  at 
the  couples  and  remarked : 

"Don't  they  look  happy?" 

"Very,"  said  Rodbourne,  in  a  cold  tone.  How 
could  she  say  such  a  thing !  How  could  she  notice 
them?  She  saw  them,  yes,  she  couldn't  help  that, 
but  she  needn't  let  on.  It  was  almost  vulgar.  He 
rather  disliked  her  as  he  left  her  at  the  house,  and 
they  made  no  other  appointment. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Neale,  busy  as  she  was  consider- 
ing Chris,  had  noticed  what  was  going  on.  She 
would  have  said  nothing  about  it,  being  wise  enough 
to  let  her  daughter  do  her  own  mating,  if  her  friend 
Mrs.  Palling  had  not  opened  the  subject. 

"I  like  your  new  friend,  Mr.  Rodbourne,"  said 
Mrs.  Palling,  who,  though  very  heavy  in  body,  was 
very  nimble  in  mind  when  it  came  to  these  things. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Neale,  "he's  rather  nice.  We've 
only  known  him  a  couple  of  months." 
11  151 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Patricia  seems  to  get  on  with  him  so  very  well," 
said  Mrs.  Palling.  "But  I  shan't  give  them  a  grand 
piano.  Too  expensive." 

Mrs.  Neale  laughed:  "Babe,  you  burn  me  up," 
having  recently  learnt  this  expression  from  an 
American  peeress.  "That's  all  your  imagination." 

"Not  at  all.  Every  time  I've  been  here  he's  been 
here ;  he's  been  seen  with  Patricia  at  the  Independent 
Arts  Show,  and  he  lunched  her  yesterday." 

"Millicent,  your  intelligence  department  is  won- 
derful." 

"I  can  see  what's  before  my  nose,"  said  Mrs. 
Palling.  "But  why  do  you  deny  it?  Want  him 
yourself  ?  All  right,  all  right ;  I'm  not  trying  to  be 
rude.  I  know  you're  not  a  Mormon." 

"You've  got  it  wrong,  Milly.  There  are  no  female 
Mormons." 

"Oh,  aren't  there!"  said  Mrs.  Palling.  "But 
that's  not  what  I'm  talking  about ;  I  mean  to  say, 
wouldn't  he  do?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Neale,  "I've  got  nothing  against 
him.  He's  quite  brilliant,  and  I  hear  they  offered 
him  the  Harbor  Office  a  month  ago." 

"He  wouldn't  take  it,"  said  Mrs.  Palling,  "be- 
cause if  he  had  he'd  have  been  stuck  in  a  minor  office 
and  the  party  would  have  thought  they'd  given  him 
enough.  He  would  have  taken  it  if  Tommy  Doon 
had  decided  to  take  a  peerage,  because  that  would 
have  cleared  Mr.  Rodbourne's  way  to  the  Cabinet. 

Only  something  happened  that's  too  long  to  tell  you. 

152 


ALL  IS  OVER 

Tommy  Doon's  sta3ring  in  the  Commons,  and  the 
Harbor  Office  wasn't  worth  while." 

"Millicent,  you  really  amaze  me,  with  the  things 
you  know.  Can  you  tell  me  whether  Mr.  Rodbourne 
has  proposed  to  my  daughter?  and  in  case  she 
has  accepted  him,  do  you  know  the  day  they've 
fixed  for  their  marriage  ?  It  would  be  awfully  con- 
venient to  know." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Palling,  seriously,  "I  don't 
know  exactly,  but  I  should  say  he  proposed  to  her 
the  other  day,  when  you  were  staying  at  May 
Headcorn's,  and  she  refused  him." 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Neale,  ceasing  to  smile,  "do  you 
mean  all  this?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Palling,  "it's  like  this.  You 
know  it's  all  over  between  him  and  Mrs.  Caldecot?" 

"I  had  heard  something  about  them,  though  I 
wasn't  sure." 

"Of  course,  it  wouldn't  get  to  Devonshire.  But 
it's  off,  my  dear.  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  dining  some- 
where where  I  was,  and  I  don't  know  her  very  well; 
but  she  was  so  cheerful,  she  was  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  party,  and  I  said  to  myself:  that  woman's 
done.  Well,  that  was  just  after  you  came  back. 
He  dropped  her  at  Cantrel  Court." 

"But  what  makes  you  think  ?  .  .  .  And  of  course 
Patricia  doesn't  know  anything  about  this  ?" 

"No?"  said  Mrs.  Palling.  "She  doesn't  know, 
but  she  feels.  I  haven't  got  any  daughters ;  you 
have,  that's  why  you  don't  understand  them." 

153 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Neale,  after  a  time,  "I  see.  You 
think  that  she  refused  him,  and  now  he  won't  take 
no  for  an  answer  .  .  .  and  that's  why  he's  taking 
her  about  such  a  lot.  I  really  ought  to  do  some- 
thing, Millicent;  only  Chris  has  been  worrying  me 
such  a  lot  lately." 

"Don't  do  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Palling,  impres- 
sively. "It  seems  to  me  a  very  good  match;  he's 
thirty-nine,  yes,  and  she's  twenty.  It  does  make  a 
difference,  I  know.  But  like  that  he  won't  get  sick 
of  her  so  early.  He's  quite  well  off.  He's  just 
sold  fourteen  hundred  acres  at  Seton  Manor  for 
a  very  good  price,  my  dear.  And  he'll  be  in  the 
Cabinet.  Besides,  you'd  be  getting  her  out  of  the 
way  for  when  you  marry  Chris." 

Mrs.  Neale  laughed.  One  couldn't  be  offended 
with  this  gadabout.  Also,  the  last  point  of  view 
appealed  to  her. 

At  the  very  end  of  April,  for  the  first  time  since 
their  parting,  Rodbourne  unexpectedly  met  Mrs. 
Caldecot.  It  was  at  one  of  those  colossal  at-homes  in 
a  house  easily  accommodating  four  hundred  guests, 
where  about  six  hundred  had  come  and  brought  their 
friends.  Half-way  up  the  stairs  he  tried  to  turn 
round  and  go  away,  but  the  incoming  crowd  would 
not  let  him.  So  ultimately  he  was  forced  into  the 
drawing-room,  exchanging  grins  and  elbow  jabs  with 
a  crowd  that  shrieked  like  parrots.  Suddenly  a 
drift  in  the  mob  carried  him  against  a  marble  pillar 

bearing  a  bust.  .  .  .  Against  the  pillar,  upon  which 

154 


ALL  IS  OVER 

she  rested  a  gloved  hand,  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  leaning 
while  she  talked  to  a  fresh-faced  boy.  Though 
separated  by  two  women  they  saw  each  other.  Mrs. 
Caldecot  faltered,  and  a  rush  of  blood  went  up  to 
her  forehead.  She  began  talking  nonsense  to  the 
boy,  who  looked  up  at  her  with  adoring  eyes.  He 
was  eighteen,  and  had  never  met  anybody  so  beauti- 
ful as  Mrs.  Caldecot.  Rodbourne  found  himself 
smiling  mechanically.  His  heart  was  beating.  He 
knew  that  he  must  go  up  to  her,  shake  hands,  be 
normal.  But  he  couldn't  get  to  her  just  then,  be- 
cause the  two  women  were  in  the  way,  and  so  for 
a  moment  he  looked  at  her,  awaiting  his  chance. 
The  flush  had  died  away;  Mrs.  Caldecot  stood 
exactly  under  the  chandelier  where  were  burning 
some  dozens  of  lights.  The  white  glare  struck  her 
directly  upon  the  forehead,  for  she  was  wearing  a 
little  Russian-looking  hat  of  black  velvet  with  scar- 
let trimming.  There  was  no  brim  to  protect 
her.  She  stood  gabbling  to  the  entrancing  boy, 
while  the  light  flung  upon  her  chin  shadows  from  the 
slightly  pendulous  cheeks,  emphasized  the  verti- 
cal folds  about  her  mouth,  and  darkened  the 
sagging  chin.  When  at  last  Rodbourne  managed  to 
get  to  her,  they  had  very  little  to  say.  Their  hands 
released  each  other  easily.  She  told  him  she 
was  quite  well.  He  said  he  hadn't  taken  the 
Harbor  job  after  all.  She  said  that  perhaps 
he  had  been  right.  Then,  that  she  must  hurry 

away. 

155 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Rodbourne  paused  for  a  moment  in  Portman 
Square.  His  emotions  were  conflicting.  She  was 
very  dear  to  him  still;  it  had  been  good  to  clasp 
her  hand,  but  he  was  oppressed  by  the  marks  he 
had  seen,  by  a  sense  of  ravage.  She  was  old.  She 
had  grown  old,  not  as  a  wife  grows  old,  very  slowly, 
in  the  same  house,  in  the  performance  of  the  same 
tasks,  in  the  pursuit  of  the  same  interests.  It  had 
not  happened  like  that,  in  a  way  one  could  forgive 
if  one  noticed  it.  She  had  just  grown  old. 

He  stared  through  the  railings  into  the  square, 
and  by  degrees  his  unhappiness  disappeared.  Claire 
was  old.  She  had  released  him.  It  was  over.  It 
was  really  over  because  she  was  old.  Then  he  found 
himself  drawing  a  breath  of  relief.  The  memory  of 
Claire,  of  her  sweetness,  it  was  that  had  enthralled 
him  and  set  up  a  barrier  between  himself  and  Pa- 
tricia. That  barrier  was  down.  Indeed,  in  that 
moment,  he  reacted  violently  from  the  past,  and 
thus  turned  toward  the  youth  which  Patricia 
offered  him.  Oh,  he  had  no  doubts  about  it:  he 
was  man  of  the  world  enough  to  realize  the  effect 
that  he,  urbane,  polished,  sure  of  himself,  and 
splendidly  mature,  must  make  upon  this  girl,  this 
little  girl.  So  he  hesitated  no  more,  crossed  the 
square,  and  within  two  minutes  was  at  Mrs.  Neale's 
door.  Yes,  Miss  Patricia  was  in.  The  maid  would 
see  whether  she'd  gone  up  to  dress  yet. 

Rodbourne  waited  nervously  in  the  drawing-room 

decorated  with  a  great  many  photographs  in  silver 

156 


ALL  IS  OVER 

frames.  He  chid  himself;  why  should  he  be  so 
absurd?  But  when  Patricia  came  in,  she  stayed 
for  a  moment  by  the  door,  looking  at  him  seri- 
ously, half-afraid,  and  still  submissive,  as  if  she 
said:  "Why,  have  you  sent  for  me,  Master?"  She 
moved  him  profoundly,  standing  thus.  She  seemed 
such  a  slight  prey  for  the  male  appetite.  So  his 
voice  was  soft  as  he  said,  "Patricia,  you  know  what 
I've  come  to  say  to  you,  don't  you?" 

She  did  not  reply,  so  he  said  again,  "Don't  you  ?" 
Thus  forced,  and  looking  away,  in  a  tremulous 
voice  she  replied,  "I  think  so." 

Then,  feeling  secure,  he  strode  across  the  room 
and  took  her  into  his  arms.  For  a  second  she  was 
rigid,  as  if  defending  for  the  last  time  her  passage 
from  one  state  to  another.  Then,  and  before  he 
could  kiss  her,  all  sweetness  and  innocence,  she 
laid  her  head  against  his  shoulder.  He  bent  his 
lips  to  her  downcast  cheek,  accepting  her  abdication. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  put  down  the  newspaper.  She 
had  no  taste  for  it.  She  picked  up  a  letter  which 
had  slipped  into  her  bed,  read  it  again.  It  did  not 
interest  her.  She  yawned,  picked  up  the  paper 
again.  After  all,  she  supposed  one  must  know  what 
was  going  on.  Thus,  with  a  hardly  perceptible 
stiffening,  as  if  her  proud  spirit  controlled  her 
nerves,  she  read: 

"A  marriage  has  been  arranged  between  Robert 
Nairn  Rodbourne,  M.  P.  for  East  Farnshire,  only 

157 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

son  of  Lieut.  General  Kenneth  Nairn  Rodbourne 
and  Mrs.  Rodbourne,  of  Seton  Manor,  Jedley, 
Salop,  and  Patricia,  younger  daughter  of  the  late 
N.  M.  Neale,  Financial  Commissioner  of  the  Gulf 
Straits  and  Mrs.  Neale  of  Wrayford,  Devonshire." 


158 


CHAPTER  VIIII 

DOPE 

VERY  slowly,  Mrs.  Caldecot  went  down  the 
gravel  path  which  wandered  between  the  lawns 
yellow  green  as  chrysoprase.  In  the  great  heat  of 
June,  Cantrel  Court  and  its  grounds  lay  dusty  and 
twinkling.  She  went  on,  eyes  upon  the  blinding, 
gritty  ground,  thoughtless,  and  for  a  moment  re- 
lieved by  the  beat  of  the  rays  upon  her  back  through 
her  thin  blouse.  By  her  side  Chang  trotted  sagely, 
enjoying  the  warmth,  his  nose,  black  as  a  truffle, 
raised  toward  her  as  if  he  expected  her  to  do  for 
his  sake  something  athletic.  She  went  on  slowly 
until  she  reached  the  flower  garden.  Though  the 
late  Mr.  Headcorn  had  shown  himself  an  imagina- 
tive but  eccentric  architect,  he  was  an  excellent 
gardener.  So  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  able  to  stand  still 
and  to  take  a  sensuous  pleasure  in  the  multicol- 
ored radiance  of  the  flowers.  The  flowers  bloomed 
with  a  kind  of  careless  profusion,  without  order. 
A  great  mass  of  dahlias  held  out  crimson  or  flesh- 
colored  quills  by  the  side  of  a  regiment  of  unbending 
gladiolas,  whose  scarlet  emphasis  brought  out  the 
pallor  of  some  little  yellow  roses,  tender  as  the 

159 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

skin  of  an  Oriental  maid.  They  were  crowded  in 
the  broad  bed,  pink-belled  snapdragon  and  begonia 
purse-proud  and  overfed,  by  the  side  of  sweet- 
williams,  whose  hemstitched  eyes  disapproved  of 
their  excess.  But  more  than  anything  the  row  of 
sweet  peas  held  her  idle  eyes.  They  were  crowded 
and  unruly,  satisfied  to  expand  against  each  other, 
making  a  soft  quilt  of  purple,  pale  pink,  pale  blue, 
among  which  the  white  petals  created  contrast  and 
gave  relief.  They  were  rich  and  debonair;  they 
hung  their  heavy  heads  upon  their  stalks,  and  strove 
for  mutual  mastery  in  a  clasp  that  was  an  embrace 
rather  than  a  threat,  like  pigmies  contending. 
Mrs.  Caldecot  for  a  while  looked  down  on  all  this 
energy,  while  Chang,  disappointed  and  bored,  gog- 
gled his  eyes  at  her,  showing  their  skim-milky  whites 
and  breathing  hard  with  impatience.  She  noticed 
him  at  last  and  bent  down  to  pat  him;  he  gave  a 
throaty  wheeze,  and  suddenly  trotted  off,  his  retro- 
verted  muzzle  striving  to  discover  moist  scents  in 
the  sun-caked  earth. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  was  still  looking  at  the  sweet  peas, 
taking,  in  their  beauty,  an  obscure  satisfaction 
mixed  with  pain.  They  were  so  alive,  and  it  was  a 
j  oy  that  they  should  be ;  they  bore  witness  in  their 
fashion  to  the  eternity  of  desire,  to  the  persistence 
of  impulse.  They  would  seed  themselves  in  an 
unconscious  act  of  love,  and  painlessly  their  seed 
should  bring  forth,  knowing  no  passion,  nor  hope, 

nor  danger,  only  the  quick  scissors   which  they 

160 


DOPE 

could  not  foresee.  Mrs.  Caldecot  told  herself  that 
consciousness  was  an  overrated  privilege,  and  she 
could  not  help  wondering  then  why,  from  the  first 
day,  when  man  built  a  fetish,  he  had  hoped  to  live 
another  life,  to  survive  personally,  just  as  he  was. 
He  roust  want  that,  or  why  survive?  He  must  want 
to  survive  just  as  he  was,  with  the  same  interests, 
the  same  ambitions,  the  same  loves.  But  did  he? 
Did  the  clerk  in  the  city  really  want  all  through 
eternity  to  be  the  man  who  every  morning  caught 
the  8.44?  If  he  didn't  do  that,  he  wouldn't  be  him- 
self. Or  did  that  clerk,  in  Moslem  fashion,  con- 
ceive some  eternal  paradise  where  gingerbeer  would 
be  free,  when  on  a  pier  always  dark  he  would  hold 
a  hand  eternally  fair?  And  she  asked  herself  what 
she  would  say  to  Mephistopheles  if  he  were,  with 
his  offer,  to  spring  out  of  those  sweet  peas.  She 
wondered  what  any  woman  would  ask  of  Mephis- 
topheles, and  was  quite  sure  that  almost  any 
woman  would  deal  with  him,  the  soul  being  after 
all  a  thing  which  for  most  of  them  had  only  a 
Sunday  value.  Youth  she  supposed,  they'd  all 
ask  for  youth,  for  all  the  old  agonies  over  again. 
And,  of  course,  all  the  old  joys.  Only  fools  would 
ask  for  wealth,  or  rank,  or  fame;  the  wise  ones 
would  know  that  with  youth  they  might  gain  the 
rest. 

Suddenly  she  told  herself,  "I  wouldn't  ask  him 
to  give  me  back  Bob."     She  did  not  fully  express 

what  she  really  meant.     At  that  moment,  on  this 

161 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

flaming  day  at  the  end  of  June,  under  the  screaming 
purple  of  the  sky,  in  the  passionate  exuberance  of 
flower  life,  she  felt  it  a  weariness  to  be  alive,  to 
be  so  little  alive  in  the  midst  of  emphatic  Nature. 
No,  she  wouldn't  go  through  it  again,  once  more  be 
charmed  and  then  betrayed,  once  more  feel  and  then 
react.  She'd  give  Mephistopheles  the  best  bargain 
he'd  ever  had ;  she'd  ask  him  to  give  her  the  courage 
to  go  that  night  to  Basingalton  and  throw  herself 
into  the  swift  little  stream  which  rushed  round  the 
bend  beyond  Basing  Bridge.  She  thought :  "I  can't 
do  it,"  and  she  despised  herself,  for  what  after  all 
was  there  to  hold  her  back?  What  had  she  got 
in  life?  What  lay  before  her?  To  grow  older, 
more  lonely,  to  do  a  lot  of  silly  things,  to  cause  time 
to  go  by,  and  to  find  that  time  didn't  go  very  fast  ? 
What  a  coward  she  was!  There  was  nothing  for 
her  now,  nothing  really,  and  no  doubt  what  stopped 
her  was  some  superstitious  fear  that  after  all  there 
might  be  another  side,  and  that  there  she  might 
find  something,  something  vindicative.  She  laughed. 
Shakespeare  thought  of  that  before  she  did.  Her 
cowardice  added  to  her  existing  humiliation  and 
made  it  almost  intolerable.  For  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
though  she  was  intelligent,  though  she  possessed 
a  sense  of  humor,  was  not  free  from  the  little  evils 
of  pride;  she  could  see  herself  as  she  was,  a 
woman  whom  once  men  had  admired,  who  had  known 
complete  love,  and  now  was  discarded  by  the 

only  man  she  had  ever  loved.     Discarded!  and  so 

162 


DOPE 

completely  that  she  did  not  desire  to  live  over 
again. 

"Isn't  this  a  lovely,  day?"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn, 
who  had  come  to  her  side  unobserved.  "I'll  have  to 
cut  some  of  those  sweet  peas,  but  they  grow  so 
fast  in  this  weather  that  I  wonder  whether  we'll 
have  enough  bowls.  I  tell  you  what,  we'll  send  some 
to  the  orphanage." 

"I'm  sure  the  orphans  would  prefer  strawber- 
ries," said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  instinctively  normal. 

"Oh,  we  haven't  got  enough  of  them." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  reply  while  Mrs.  Head- 
corn  went  on  talking,  passing  swiftly  from  criti- 
cisms of  the  garden  to  scraps  of  gossip  about  the 
neighborhood.  She  did  not  notice  that  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot was  not  responding,  until  her  friend  replied  to 
a  remark  of  Suki's  health,  which  was  then  not  very 
good,  in  a  way  so  inappropriate  that  Mrs.  Head- 
corn  realized  that  she  was  not  listening.  She  was 
not  offended;  she  was  not  very  good  at  perceiving 
people's  moods ;  as  Mrs.  Caldecot  herself  once  put 
it,  May  didn't  always  see  things  that  were  before 
her  nose,  but  she  did  see  them  if  one  hit  her  on  the 
nose  with  them.  She  slipped  a  fat  and  rather  moist 
hand  behind  Mrs.  Caldecot's  arm,  and  was  sur- 
prised and  shocked  when  at  this  contact  Mrs.  Cal- 
decot's rigid  attitude  changed  and  she  flung  herself 
crying  into  her  arms. 

Mrs.  Headcorn  didn't  say  anything,  for  she  did 

not  know  what  to  say.    She  patted  the  big,  heaving 

163 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

shoulder  and  made  comfortable  noises.  She  was 
quite  surprised  when  suddenly  Mrs.  Caldecot  re- 
leased herself  and,  turning  away,  wiped  her  eyes, 
powdered  herself  with  feverish  hands.  At  last  Mrs. 
Headcorn  felt  that  she  must  say  something: 
"Claire,"  she  whispered,  "isn't  it  getting  any 
better?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  and,  in  a  trembling 
voice :  "I  can't  get  used  to  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  sympathetically, 
"when  Charlie  died  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  turned  on  her  in  a  sort  of  rage: 
"Oh,  you're  all  right;  Charlie  died.  I  know  you 
were  fond  of  him,  I  don't  mean  that,  only  he  died. 
Don't  you  see?  That  made  an  end  of  it,  and  you 
can  tell  yourself  that  if  he'd  gone  on  living  it'd  be 
all  right  between  you  and  him.  But  Bob's  not 
dead." 

Something  in  her  tone  shocked  Mrs.  Headcorn. 
"Don't  talk  like  that,"  she  whispered.  "It  sounds 
as  if  you  wanted  Bob  to  be  dead." 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "Oh,  no, 
don't  listen  to  me.  I  don't,  really  I  don't.  It 
wasn't  his  fault.  Oh,  May,  I  promise  you,  I'm  glad, 
really." 

"I  think  you're  saying  too  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Headcorn.  "You  can't  be  glad." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  reflectively,  "yes,  I 
can  be  glad.  It  isn't  my  fault  that  I'm  a  woman, 

that  I  still  care  for  him,  that  in  some  moments  I'd 

164 


DOPE 

like  to  shoot  them  both.  I  can't  help  it,  but  I'm  glad 
all  the  same.  It's  the  right  thing  for  him  to  do." 

"He  was  all  right  as  things  were,"  said  Mrs. 
Headcorn,  grudging. 

"No.  Not  really.  Patricia's  going  to  give  him 
everything  he  needs.  She'll  love  him." 

"Not  like  you,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  the  partisan. 

"Perhaps  not.  I  don't  think  anybody  could. 
But  she'll  love  him  quite  enough,  love  him  as  he's 
got  to  be  loved,  like  a  grown-up  man,  a  man  who's 
perhaps  going  to  be  famous."  She  sighed :  "She'll 
sit  at  the  head  of  his  table,  where  I  could  never 
sit;  give  him  children  that  I  could  never  give  him. 
It'll  make  him  happy,  for  he  likes  being  a  social 
figure,  the  dear,  brilliant  baby;  and  he'll  like  on 
Sunday  afternoons  going  to  the  Zoo,  hand  in  hand 
with  a  little  boy  and  a  little  girl.  Perhaps  he'll 
call  the  little  girl  Claire." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  looked  as  if  she  were  going  to 
cry.  "You  sound  so  bitter,"  she  said. 

"I'm  not.  I'm  only  trying  to  see  things  as  they 
are.  And  I  suppose  you  think  I'll  let  him  go 
like  that." 

"You  don't  mean?  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  May,  don't  be  so  thick.  Of  course  I'm  not 
going  to  try  to  get  him  back.  I  know  what  you 
think.  But  I  can't  let  him  go  quite.  It's  asking 
too  much  of  me.  I'll  always  be  there.  Why  not? 
Patricia  likes  me,  I  think.  So  I'll  go  to  their  house, 

and  by  degrees,  when  Bob  realizes  that  I'm  safe, 

165 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

that  I'm  not  going  to  entangle  him  again,  yes, 
entangle,  let's  face  things  straight  if  we  can't  face 
them  bravely,  when  he  feels  safe  I'll  just  be  his 
friend.  I'll  just  be  the  woman  with  whom  he  dis- 
cusses his  affairs.  I  couldn't  let  that  go." 

"Patricia  won't  like  it." 

"She  won't  at  first.  But  as  I  let  my  hair  grow 
gray,  which  I  shall,  as  I  turn  out  to  be  the  con- 
venient person  who  can  be  rung  up  in  the  morning 
to  come  to  dinner  when  a  guest  is  ill,  who  takes  the 
children  to  the  seaside  when  Bob  and  Patricia  want 
to  go  honeymooning  in  Greece — well,  I  shall  have 
started  by  being  Claire ;  I  shall  become  dear  Claire ; 
I  shall  end  as  poor  Claire.  But  I'll  still  be  there, 
and  don't  say  I've  got  no  pride,  for  it's  true,  I 
haven't;  I  only  have  spasms  of  it;  at  bottom  I'm 
like  any  woman  who  is  really  in  love ;  I  don't  mean 
a  woman  with  her  sense  of  romance  titillated,  but 
a  woman  who's  really  in  love:  when  a  woman's  like 
that  she's  just  abject." 

"I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  say  those  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Headcorn.  "You  make  me  so  uncomfortable." 

"Whom  else  should  I  say  them  to?"  asked  Mrs. 
Caldecot,  squeezing  the  fat  arm.  "Is  there  anybody 
else  in  the  world  before  whom  I'd  give  myself  away 
like  this?  You  know  there  isn't.  That's  why  I 
love  you,  you  fat  old  idiot,  because  you  never  under- 
stand me  but  always  tolerate  me." 

"No.  I  don't  understand  that,  for  instance,  but 
I  suppose  it's  clever." 

166 


DOPE 

Mrs.  Caldecot  laughed.  "I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  without  you.  Whenever  I  want  to  clear 
up  my  emotions  and  tear  up  the  old  ones,  you're 
the  only  possible  waste-paper  basket.  Don't  get 
offended :  offense  does  not  suit  your  curves." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Head- 
corn.  "But  what  I  want  to  know  is :  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  yourself?" 

"Oh,  dear,  I've  just  been  telling  you,  but  I  sup- 
pose you  mean  the  other  things,  all  the  things  that 
don't  count.  Well,  of  course  I'm  going  to  do  them ; 
I'm  going  to  join  societies  and  committees,  and  go  in 
for  philanthropic  and  social  reforms,  and  religions, 
if  they're  comfortable,  and  never  have  a  meal  alone 
if  I  can  help  it,  and  appear  at  the  Botanic,  at  the 
Albert  Hall  bazaars,  at  the  Horse  Show,  the  Dog 
Show,  and  the  Cat  Show ;  and  I'll  go  on  the  river, 
and  to  Cannes,  and  to  Toormina,  and  to  St.  Moritz. 
And  when  I've  got  nothing  else  to  do  I  shall  have  a 
row  with  the  telephone.  Oh,  I'll  be  busy." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Headcorn,  solemnly, 
"that  if  all  that  doesn't  count,  well,  you'll  be  busy 
when  you  do  the  things  that  do  count." 

Mrs.  Headcorn  was  right,  in  a  way.  In  her 
despair,  in  her  contempt  for  the  trifling  attractions 
of  her  period,  Mrs.  Caldecot  had  underrated  the 
influence  of  the  agitated  life.  She  had  told  herself 
that  she  would  live  hurriedly  so  as  to  convince 
herself  that  she  was  still  alive,  but  she  did  not  know 

how  exacting  trifles  could  be.     She  found  it  needed 
12  167 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

courage  to  subject  herself  to  them.  Her  first  im- 
pulse had  been  to  let  things  go.  Some  of  the  chair 
covers  should  go  to  the  cleaner,  but  what  did  it 
matter?  Let  them  get  dirty,  since  there  was  nobody 
to  keep  them  clean  for.  For  some  days  she  hardly 
went  out ;  she  brushed  her  hair  and  somehow  packed 
it  up,  told  the  cook  to  send  up  anything  she  liked ; 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  except  during  house- 
moving  or  on  arriving  from  journeys,  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  dined  in  a  coat  and  skirt.  It  was  this  dramatic 
fact  that  probably  shook  her  out  of  her  lethargy. 
Not  to  dress  for  dinner,  to  deprive  the  occasion  of  a 
ceremony  to  which  it  was  entitled.  .  .  .  One  evening 
she  realized  that  she  was  slipping  from  the  group 
that  dresses  into  the  group  that  does  not,  and  that 
perhaps  she  would  slide  into  the  group  which  before 
dinner  does  not  wash.  She  was  ashamed;  she 
vaguely  excused  herself  to  Maud  who  every  night 
had  punctually  laid  out  an  evening  frock  for  her, 
by  muttering  something  about  not  having  felt  very 
well  lately.  Maud  was  perfect;  she  seemed  to 
understand  that  Mrs.  Caldecot  wanted  to  react, 
and  so,  that  night,  as  if  by  household  conspiracy, 
there  were  more  flowers  than  usual  on  the  table, 
the  dinner  was  very  delicate,  and  Maud  dressed  Mrs. 
Caldecot  in  her  frock  of  flame  brocade  with  the  voile 
sleeves  edged  with  monkey  fur.  Mrs.  Caldecot  liked 
herself,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  went  to 
her  jewel  case  and  clasped  round  her  neck  the  neck- 
lace of  pigeon-blood  rubies  which  .  .  .  well,  what 

168 


DOPE 

did  it  matter  if  it  was  Bob  who'd  given  them  to  her? 
They  were  hers,  she  thought  defiantly,  and  went 
downstairs. 

It  was  after  that  reaction  that  Mrs.  Caldecot 
went  out,  was  seen,  and  disregarded  possible  gossip. 
She  became  very  busy,  so  busy  that  sometimes  she 
was  wearied  by  having  too  much  to  do.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation,  London  society  probably 
ceased  to  commiserate  with  her ;  instead  of  wonder- 
ing how  she  was  taking  it,  it  decided  that  she  was 
taking  it  very  well;  so  it  helped  her  to  live.  One 
evening,  as  she  got  into  bed,  a  little  after  one  o'clock, 
she  found  herself  wakeful;  the  preoccupations  of 
the  day  were  still  upon  her.  Yes,  it  had  been  a  long 
day.  First  she  found  herself  in  a  housekeeping 
mood  and  investigated  the  stores  which  the  cook 
artfully  constituted  by  ordering  whenever  she 
could  a  quarter  of  a  pound  too  much  of  everything, 
and  hiding  the  result  at  the  back  of  a  large  drawer 
in  the  dresser.  The  fact  that  the  ironing  rug  was 
placed  innocently  in  front  of  the  groceries,  and 
that  the  cat  slept  on  the  rug  with  an  air  of  still 
greater  innocence,  did  not  save  the  cook  from  Mrs. 
Caldecot's  investigations.  Then  she  had  a  conver- 
sation with  Maud  and  was  reassured  as  to  the  ur- 
gency of  Maud's  young  man.  Then  the  plumber 
came  to  mend  the  kitchen  range,  and  Mrs.  Caldecot 
had  to  face  the  coalition  of  the  plumber,  his  mate, 
and  her  two  servants;  they  wanted  new  plates,  a 
new  cinder  tray,  possibly  a  new  range.  So  Mrs. 

169 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Caldecot  fought  gallantly,  had  the  cinder  tray 
mended,  and  insisted  upon  the  broken  plates  being 
joined  up  with  steel  stanchions.  She  went  away 
rather  pleased  with  herself,  and  quite  sure  that  the 
plumber  would  report  her  to  his  firm  as  a  democrat, 
but  no  lady.  She  passed  the  rest  of  the  morning 
matching  a  new  evening  frock  with  silk  stock- 
ings, which  proved  the  usual  lengthy  and  mad- 
dening adventure.  For,  as  usual,  the  only  available 
stockings  seemed  to  be  one  shade  darker  or  one 
shade  lighter.  She  got  home  only  in  time  to 
repair  the  disorder  caused  by  matching  to  go  to 
a  lunch  party  quite  near,  where  everybody  knew 
everybody,  and  talked  a  lot,  and  very  loud,  and 
they  all  had  just  a  little  more  to  drink  than 
they  should  in  the  early  afternoon.  Mrs.  Cal- 
decot rather  enjoyed  herself,  and  a  woman  con- 
fided to  her  something  she  called  a  secret:  every- 
body knew  about  it,  so  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  frightfully 
amused.  Indeed,  she  was  sorry  to  have  to  leave  a 
little  before  three,  to  go  to  a  committee  of  the 
Society  for  the  Training  of  Domestic  Servants  in 
the  Principles  of  the  Christian  Religion.  She  did 
not  know  why  she  belonged  to  this  thing,  but  she 
had  been  persuaded  on  to  the  committee  by  an  ear- 
nest aristocrat  with  a  face  like  a  mule,  who  managed 
to  make  a  new  black  gown  look  rusty  on  the  first 
day,  and  wore  white  frills  round  her  neck  and 
wrists,  together  with  a  gold  chain  decorated  with 

emeralds.     Mrs.   Caldecot  had   resisted   for  some 

170 


DOPE 

time,  until  she  realized  that  the  patrons  wanted  her 
to  give  to  the  committee  the  touch  of  the  flesh  and 
the  devil  which  might  induce  domestic  servants  to 
come  and  be  trained.  This  was  rather  flattering, 
and  so  Mrs.  Caldecot  listened  once  a  month  to  the 
chairwoman's  speeches.  She  examined  the  proofs  of 
an  appeal  for  funds,  from  which  she  removed  the 
split  infinitives,  for  Rodbourne  had  taught  her  to 
dislike  them.  She  arranged  to  attend  a  drawing- 
room  meeting  destined  to  promote  the  mixing  of 
classes,  of  course  on  a  footing  of  purely  religious 
equality.  She  could  not  help  being  amused  by  two 
letters  from  grateful  domestics,  who  had  been 
assisted  by  the  Society  into  the  house  of  a  bishop. 
The  bishop  was  very  pleased.  Indeed,  the  only 
complaint  was  an  indirect  report  submitted  to  the 
committee  by  a  Mrs.  Sutton,  who  said  that  the 
cook  had  complained  to  her  that  the  bishop's  wife 
had  changed  her  name  from  Eve  to  Mary,  saying 
that  the  name  of  Eve  was  not  suitable  to  the 
peculiar  circumstances  for  which,  after  all,  she 
wasn't  responsible,  but  everyone  was  down  on  a  poor 
girl,  and  if  everything  was  known  .  .  . 

At  this  moment  the  chairwoman  stopped  Mrs. 
Sutton,  saying  that  her  statement  was  irrelevant, 
and  Mrs.  Caldecot  laughed  very  loud,  to  the  horror 
of  part  of  the  committee,  and  to  the  delight  of  the 
more  regrettable  element  which  unaccountably 
existed  in  this  body.  It  was  only  by  degrees  that 

Mrs.  Caldecot  grew  bored,  when  the  chairwoman 

171 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

began  to  read  aloud  literature  designed  for  the 
Devout  and  Lowly;  she  felt  rather  sorry  for  the 
lowly  unless  they  were  very  devout,  though  the 
Society  did  give  five-pound  prizes  for  perfection. 
So  at  last  she  was  glad  to  get  up  and  to  plead  an 
at-home  which  she  must  attend;  she  left  the  com- 
mittee, followed  speedily  by  the  regrettable  element, 
who  obviously  had  to  go  to  the  same  at-home,  but 
all  the  same  dispersed  on  the  doorstep. 

"I  wonder  why  I  go  to  these  things,"  thought  Mrs. 
Caldecot.  It  had  been  such  an  at-homey  at-home, 
so  exactly  like  those  she'd  been  to  before,  the  same 
people,  the  same  young  men  with  the  large  feet  to 
pin  you  in  a  doorway,  and  the  same  refreshments. 
She  remembered  a  story  in  one  of  Thackeray's 
books  about  a  trifle  made  in  the  shape  of  an  ele- 
phant, which  a  certain  man  met  at  every  party 
throughout  the  season.  Growing  tired  of  the  thing, 
he  attempted,  in  spite  of  the  footman,  to  destroy  it 
with  a  spoon,  and  found  that  it  had  the  spurious 
sponginess  of  rubber.  Well,  one  had  to  do  these 
things,  and  one  got  something  out  of  it,  she  sup- 
posed. A  new  way  to  knot  one's  sash,  or  some  evil 
communication.  Also,  one  saw  and  was  seen;  one 
made  up  a  sort  of  mutual  cinema. 

She  got  home  at  six,  and  for  half  an  hour  did 
find  gravity,  for  that  day  she  had  collected  some 
letters  from  various  organizations  in  Bob's  con- 
stituency. She'd  felt  awkward  about  that ;  but  she 
had  become  so  well-known  over  there  in  the  last 

172 


DOPE 

eight  years ;  the  cricket  club,  the  blanket  fund  had 
received  subscriptions  from  her  for  so  long ;  and  the 
secretary  of  the  local  association  was  actually  want- 
ing her  to  get  at  Bob  to  make  him  put  a  question  in 
the  House  about  the  rise  in  the  Basing  Canal  dues. 
She  sighed  as  she  read  the  letter : 

".  .  .  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  bother  you,  especially 
as  Mr.  Rodbourne  has  already  said  he  doesn't  want 
to  raise  the  point,  but  I  thought  that  if  you  were 
to  put  it  to  him  in  another  way  he  might  change 
his  mind.  The  position  is  this  .  .  ." 

She  sighed  again;  all  that  was  a  very  long  way 
off.  They  still  thought  she  counted ;  they  couldn't 
have  known  how  things  were  between  her  and  Bob, 
or  they  wouldn't  have  stood  it,  but  they  did  look 
to  her.  Well,  she  mustn't  give  him  away.  She  signed 
the  checks,  told  the  secretary  that  she  feared  noth- 
ing would  alter  Mr.  Rodbourne's  point  of  view. 
All  this  worried  her  a  little,  for  she  wondered  what 
Bob  would  say  if  he  found  out.  Perhaps  he'd 
understand,  but  even  if  he  didn't  she  couldn't  help 
clinging  to  what  she  still  could  get.  She  was 
relieved  when  it  was  done,  relieved  to  have  to  hurry 
over  dressing.  Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  except 
to  make  herself  look  nice,  for,  at  twenty  past  seven 
Stephen  Britford  arrived  to  take  her  to  dinner  with 
some  friends  of  his,  the  Newton-Lindsays.  A 
restaurant,  another  band.  Oh,  dear ! 

Somehow  she  enjoyed  her  evenings,  and  once  she 

felt  a  little  ashamed  of  that ;  it  wasn't  right  that  she 

173 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

should  enjoy  herself,  not  quite.  But  the  couple 
were  rather  nice,  both  under  thirty,  both  very  good- 
looking,  and  the  woman,  who  was  American,  amused 
Mrs.  Caldecot  all  through  dinner  by  "passing  her 
the  buck,"  and  finally  "beating  it."  Mrs.  Cal- 
decot was  innocent  enough  to  think  that  this  was 
the  lady's  natural  language ;  she  did  not  know  that 
Mrs.  Newton-Lindsay,  who  was  a  Virginian,  was 
playing  a  huge  joke  on  London,  collecting  Ameri- 
can slang  she'd  never  heard  before  in  her  very 
cultured  home,  and  that  she  entertained  the  bar- 
barous English  with  it,  making  fun  of  them  all  the 
time.  The  dinner  was  rather  hurried  at  the  end, 
for  they  had  to  get  to  the  theater  at  a  quarter  to 
nine,  to  see  one  of  those  wonderful  modern  French 
plays  which  work  like  a  model  dynamo,  where  every- 
thing fits  in,  where  the  incidents  of  the  fourth  act 
are  traced  to  the  first ;  where  A  loved  B  and  can't 
say  so,  because  C  knew  D's  heart  would  be  broken, 
and  where  at  the  intrusion  of  D,  A  fails  to  get 
D  or  whatever  it  is,  where  the  mosaic  of  the  plot 
is  perfect,  and  where  half-way  through  not  a  mem- 
ber of  the  audience  cares  a  hang  what  happens  to 
anybody.  When  it  was  over,  even  then  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot did  not  go  to  bed,  for  at  the  theater  they  had 
met  the  Millbrooks,  who  hated  going  to  bed,  and 
who  insisted  upon  taking  them  all  four  to  a  supper 
and  dance  club.  It  was  there  that  Mrs.  Caldecot 
took  closer  notice  of  Newton-Lindsay.  He  looked 
about  twenty-seven,  and  he  had  helped  her  into  the 

174 


DOPE 

car  in  such  a  lingering  way.  Britf ord  too  kept  fixed 
upon  her  the  cold  ardor  of  his  eyes,  while  Humphrey 
Millbrook  seemed  also  to  think  her  presentable.  So 
Mrs.  Caldecot  enjoyed  her  supper,  the  heat,  the 
noise,  the  dazzling  fact  of  the  crowded  couples, 
touches  of  black  and  scarlet,  emerald,  white  and 
gold,  that  passed  like  a  patchwork  moving  carpet 
by  the  table  where  they  sat.  She  had  not  danced 
since  the  winter,  but  now  she  was  persuaded  by 
Newton-Lindsay,  who  certainly  had  had  much  too 
much  to  drink,  and  was  determined,  as  he  whispered 
to  her  later,  to  make  this  into  a  red,  red  night.  It 
wasn't  such  a  very  red  night  really,  thought  Mrs. 
Caldecot,  for  in  London  red  nights  always  take 
place  in  the  dark,  but  she  let  herself  go,  and  for 
an  hour  she  danced  every  dance,  getting  rather  hot, 
and  felt  untidy,  like  a  girl  who  is  enjoying  herself. 
She  had  only  one  dance  with  Britford  and  one  with 
Millbrook;  Newton-Lindsay,  when  his  turn  came, 
refused  to  let  her  go.  He  amused  her ;  after  all  he 
was  only  twenty-seven;  she  admired  him  for  being 
so  very  drunk  and  yet  maintaining  the  most  beauti- 
ful manners.  It  was  only  at  the  end,  when  he  tried 
publicly  to  teach  her  a  step  he  called  the  "cork- 
screw," that  she  realized  that  anything  to  do  with  a 
corkscrew  was  the  one  thing  the  boy  should  avoid 
that  night.  She  determined  to  rescue  her  dignity, 
and  broke  up  the  party.  But  in  the  car,  on  the  way 
home,  where  the  six  packed  themselves  in  a  state 
of  great  contiguity  and  friendliness,  an  accident 

175 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

happened;  the  light  would  not  work.  So  they  sat 
in  almost  complete  darkness,  for  Piccadilly  was  up, 
and  the  chauffeur  had  to  find  his  way  south  of 
Green  Park  toward  Belgravia.  Everybody  was 
chattering,  and  Newton-Lindsay's  high  voice  dom- 
inated the  other.  He  seemed  so  excited  that  Mrs. 
Caldecot  started  when  she  suddenly  felt  his  hand 
close  over  hers.  It  seemed  so  ridiculous  that  for  a 
moment  she  did  not  struggle,  but  as  his  fingers 
interlocked  into  hers  she  had  a  moment  of  revolt. 
It  was  not  only  absurd,  it  was  indecent.  As  she 
struggled  she  thought :  "Oh,  what  a  fool  you  are  i 
He's  very  nice ;  he  likes  you ;  and  it  isn't  as  if  you 
were  an  immoral  woman.  Oh,  why  aren't  you  easy  ? 
Why  aren't  you  one  of  those  women  who'll  let  men 
pick  them  up  in  a  restaurant?  They  find  life  sim- 
ple. Don't  be  a  moral  woman.  If  you  can't  be 
loved,  be  amused."  But  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  a  moral 
woman,  and  whatever  the  past  might  mark  up 
against  her,  whatever  the  future  might  reserve,  she 
couldn't  help  being  a  moral  woman.  So  she  went  on 
struggling,  and  even  viciously  tried  to  hurt  him 
with  her  rings.  If  at  last  she  gave  in,  it  was  because 
she  was  too  tired,  and  because  to  let  her  hand  lie 
limp  in  his  enabled  her  to  think  of  something  else. 

So  she  lay  in  her  bed,  reviewing  this  long  day, 
this  silly  day,  this  jolly  day,  and  thought  that  all 
the  glamour  was  accident,  that  this  was  a  very  normal 
day,  like  the  others,  the  days  of  other  people.  She 

hadn't  done  anything  worth  doing,  anything  she 

176 


DOPE 

wanted  to  do,  but  if  she  hadn't  done  those  things, 
she'd  have  done  others  that  didn't  matter  much 
either.  There  was  only  one  thing  she  wanted,  had 
ever  wanted;  she'd  lost  it,  and  it  wouldn't  come 
again.  So  she  was  taking  dope;  all  this  feverish- 
ness,  this  movement,  it  was  dope.  Newton-Lindsay's 
hand  upon  hers,  she  supposed  that  was  part  of  the 
dope.  Perhaps  one  needed  dope  to  live,  dope  like 
other  people,  dope  to  get  through  these  jolly  days, 
these  silly  days. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DISCORD 

MRS.  CALDECOT  drew  back  from  her  desk, 
read  a  letter  over  again,  then  put  it  down 
hurriedly,  as  if  it  troubled  her.  For  a  moment  she 
bent  over  the  desk  with  an  air  of  weariness  which 
that  night  accorded  ill  with  her  appearance.  She 
wore  a  sheath  of  very  dark  blue  satin,  embroidered 
from  the  lower  hem  upward  with  tall  stalks  of  golden 
corn  that  glowed  through  an  overlay  of  lighter  blue 
ninon.  There  was  on  her  massive  shoulders  a  sheen 
as  on  old  ivory.  She  looked  so  powerful  and  estab- 
lished that  it  was  incongruous  to  behold  her  in  this 
attitude  of  resignation.  She  must  have  felt  the 
unworthiness  of  this  abandonment,  for  after  a  mo- 
ment she  busied  herself,  took  up  an  account  ren- 
dered, checked  it  from  a  little  pile  of  bills,  wrote 
two  checks;  only  when  this  business  was  done  did 
she  once  more  look  at  the  letter. 

It  worried  her.  Oh,  it  was  not  the  first  time  she 
had  had  a  letter  from  Stephen  Britford,  nor  was  it 
his  first  love  letter.  But  it  was  hardly  like  Stephen 
to  compose  a  sentence  such  as  this:  *'.  .  .  you 

know  I  love  you,  and  what's  the  good  of  my  telling 

178 


DISCORD 

it  again  unless  it  amuses  you  to  hurt  me.  Well, 
hurt  me  if  jou  like.  I've  wanted  you  all  my  life, 
and  you've  played  with  me.  I'll  get  you,  I  tell  you 
that,  by  hook  or  by  crook  I  will.  Oh,  my  dar- 
ling .  .  .» 

This  was  not  Stephen's  usual  phraseology.  He 
was  rather  inclined  toward  an  1830  style ;  he  chose 
to  tell  her  that  "she  had  long  been  aware  of  the 
regard  he  felt  for  her."  But  this  sort  of  thing,  this 
fierce  wooing,  it  was  not  Stephen,  and  it  was  wrong 
that  it  should  be  Stephen.  It  looked  as  if  she  had 
exasperated  him,  and  though  she  was  woman  enough 
to  enjoy  his  exasperation,  all  the  same  he  frightened 
her,  because  she  did  not  know  him,  because  she  could 
not  tell  what  fires  slumbered  under  his  apparent 
coldness,  because  indeed  she  feared  that  his  ardor 
might  have  been  enhanced  by  long  restraint.  She 
asked  herself  once  more :  "Why  not  ?"  She  stimu- 
lated herself  with :  (CTm  very  fond  of  him,  and  it'd 
make  him  so  happy."  But  she  knew  she  couldn't ; 
she  knew  herself  for  a  rigid  woman.  She  said,  half- 
aloud.  "I'm  a  pattern  of  propriety,  even  though 
the  scissors  did  slip  once."  She  smiled  at  herself. 
No,  she  couldn't  do  it ;  it  wouldn't  be  decent,  and 
it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  dear  old  Stephen,  to  go  to  him 
like  that,  without  caring  for  him  really,  feeling  un- 
worthy, and  always  tainting  his  satisfaction  with 
a  sort  of  remorse.  She'd  be  murdering  her  own 
self-respect,  and  this  she  couldn't  forgive  Stephen, 
so  she'd  make  him  suffer.  She  wouldn't  be  the  Claire 

179 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

he'd  loved,  but  an  old,  embittered,  disillusioned 
Claire,  a  poor  thing  to  cast  into  his  arms  which 
had  been  held  out  to  her  when  she  was  simple  and 
radiant.  She'd  give  him  reality,  poor,  flat  reality, 
after  his  long  and  lovely  dream.  No,  she  didn't  love 
him,  but  she  loved  him  too  well  to  love  him  falsely. 

All  the  same,  he  troubled  her,  and  she  had  the 
instinct  of  the  nice  woman  to  try  to  cool  his  fervor ; 
she  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  rejoiced  in  the 
appeals  of  men,  who  likes  to  encourage  them  so  that 
she  may  deny  them ;  she  was  not  of  those  who  find 
more  pleasure  in  being  desired  than  in  according 
favors.  She  was  simple,  and  her  special  sense  of 
honor  told  her  that  it  was  wrong  to  let  a  man  want 
her  when  she  didn't  want  him,  that  he  was  paying 
her  after  all  a  great  compliment,  and  that  she  had 
no  right  to  inflict  upon  him  the  humiliation  of  see- 
ing it  rejected.  No,  she  mustn't  see  him.  She 
wouldn't  accept  his  invitation  for  the  next  day. 
She'd  better  write.  Then  she  reflected  that  Maud 
had  taken  down  her  letters  five  minutes  before,  and 
that  she  did  not  dare  to  send  her  out  again.  She'd 
better  telephone.  So  she  switched  on  the  connection 
of  her  desk  instrument.  Stephen  was  out,  but  his 
valet  took  a  message :  Mrs.  Caldecot  was  very  sorry 
but  could  not  lunch  with  Mr.  Britford,  as  she  was 
going  out  of  town  next  morning  for  the  weekend. 

When  that  was  done  Mrs.  Caldecot  leaned  back 
in  her  chair,  feeling  rather  desolate  and  cut  off. 
She'd  done  it,  she'd  been  right  to  do  it,  but  Stephen 

180 


DISCORD 

would  not  be  deceived,  would  be  driven  only  to 
greater  passion,  to  further  extraordinary  threats. 
Well,  she  couldn't  help  it,  but  she  felt  lonely.  In 
the  end  she'd  lose  him;  she  didn't  want  him,  but 
she  wanted  to  keep  him.  And  for  some  time  she 
meditated  upon  her  own  weakness.  It  was  then  that 
Mrs.  Caldecot  heard  a  sound  which  caused  her  to 
turn  around  suddenly,  just  in  time  to  see  one  of 
the  folding  doors  of  the  ell  open  to  admit  into  the 
drawing-room  a  man  in  evening  clothes.  A  scream 
stopped  half-way  in  her  throat  as  she  thought  of 
burglars.  Then  she  found  her  knees  trembling,  and 
her  breath  coming  fast  as  she  recognized  the  figure 
that  stood  before  her,  holding  the  door  handle  in  a 
calm  grasp.  He  was  a  man  growing  elderly,  of 
medium  height.  Rather  sparse  brown  hair,  abun- 
dantly streaked  with  gray,  produced  the  illusion  of 
an  elevated  brow.  Two  hard  brown  eyes,  under- 
hung by  pockets  of  dry  skin,  looked  upon  her  with 
the  unblinking  stare  of  certain  reptiles.  The  fine, 
disdainful  nose,  the  sunken,  compressed,  clean- 
shaven mouth  framed  by  two  deep  folds,  the  chin 
made  prominent  by  the  drawn  skin  that  looked 
harsh,  all  this  contributed  to  make  an  effect  of 
intensity  and  ugly  determination. 

He  considered  her  for  a  moment,  unsmiling,  as  if 
taking  dispassionate  note  of  her  appearance  and 
surroundings.  As  without  haste  he  closed  the  door 
of  the  ell,  she  noticed  with  surprising  irrelevancy 
that  he  was  extraordinarily  smart.  Excellent  eve- 

181 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

ning  clothes,  nice  silk-faced  coat,  and  silver-topped 
ebony  stick.  That  was  the  one  definite  idea  which 
whirled  in  her  brain,  like  a  cork  in  the  middle  of 
swirling  water.  Now  he  put  down  his  things,  sat 
down  in  an  armchair;  he  was  looking  at  her  with 
an  air  of  irony,  looking  at  her  as  if  he  analyzed  and 
evaluated  her.  This  perfect  self-possession,  instead 
of  disturbing  her  more,  forced  her  into  activity.  In 
a  whisper  that  was  suddenly  hoarse,  she  said : 

"Geoff!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man. 

"You !"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  distractedly  pushing 
back  her  chair. 

"Yes,  I.  Geoffrey  Caldecot.  What  about  it, 
Claire?" 

"But  what?  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "after  all 
these  years?  .  .  ." 

"After  all  these  years,  Clarrie,  as  you  say.  It 
does  me  good  to  see  the  old  place  again,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  old  girl.  Well  now,  say  you're  pleased, 
instead  of  looking  as  surprised  as  a  cod  that's  been 
a  week  on  the  fishmonger's  slab." 

"Well !"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  who  found  her  self- 
possession  returning,  "I'm  rather  surprised." 

"Why,  my  dear  Clarrie?"  said  Caldecot,  as  he 
leaned  forward,  playing  with  his  monocle  cord  until 
the  glass  fell  out  of  his  eye.  "Oh,  damn  this  thing. 
It's  always  falling  out.  Well,  I've  worn  it  for  thirty 
years.  What  were  we  talking  about?  Oh,  yes,  you 
were  surprised.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why. 

182 


DISCORD 

grettable  misunderstandings  caused  the  course  of 
true  love  to  run  awry.  Might  happen  to  anybody. 
Happens  to  lots  of  people,  doesn't  it  ?  Still,  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  get  such  a  shock  because  your 
loving  husband  returns  from  abroad." 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  as  her 
faculties  returned  and  she  made  ready  for  some  sort 
of  struggle. 

"What  do  I  want,  my  dear?  Oh,  how  can  you 
ask  ?  How  can  you  turn  such  a  bitter  face  to  Darby 
after  long  years  returning  to  his  Joan,  and  only 
waiting  for  the  fatted  calf.  I'm  afraid  that's  mixed 
mythology,  Clarrie,  but  you  won't  mind,  will  you? 
I've  come  back  out  of  natural  affection,  of  course." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"You've  become  very  blunt,  my  dear.  I  want 
to  have  a  chat  with  you.  I've  had  the  devil  of  a 
long  wait,  too.  Seems  to  me  you  dawdle  over  your 
dinner  longer  than  in  the  old  days,  eh?  Well,  as 
middle  age  creeps  upon  us  I  suppose  we  get  greedy. 
Been  waiting  for  you  for  an  hour.  Nearly  burst  in 
ten  minutes  ago,  but  you  were  telephoning,  and  I 
thought  I'd  better  keep  out.  Tact,  my  dear,  you 
know,  tact."  Then,  as  if  her  husband  were  delib- 
erately trying  to  provoke  her  into  an  unguarded 
interruption,  he  went  on  chatting  of  the  inefficiency 
of  the  telephone  service.  She  did  not  listen,  but  as 
he  spoke  she  could  not  help  noting  the  degra- 
dation of  the  handsome  features;  as  she  observed 
the  dry,  wrinkled  skin,  the  air  of  premature  decay, 
13  183 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

she  couldn't  help  a  half -unconscious  spasm  of  pity ; 
the  dashing,  the  handsome  Geoffrey,  to  have  turned 
into  this  disreputably  smart,  dangerous-looking 
creature !  It  was  tragic. 

As  he  grew  conscious  of  her  gaze  he  became  arch. 
"Well,  my  dear,  I  haven't  come  back  to  talk  to  you 
about  the  telephone,  especially  as  your  ruby  lips  are 
not  contributing  to  the  debate.  There  isn't  much 
welcome  in  this  house  for  a  stray  lamb,  is  there? 
Well,  well,  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you.  Would 
you  like  to  stand  me  a  drink?" 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  sud- 
denly preoccupied  with  this  trifle. 

"Oh,  Clarrie,  how  little  you  know  me !  How  you 
misunderstand  me!  You  always  have,  and  as  they 
used  to  say  at  the  Lyceum,  unless  it  was  somewhere 
else,  you  cannot  shake  off  your  share  of  guilt.  I 
got  in  with  my  latchkey." 

"Your  latchkey?" 

"Why,  of  course.  All  these  years,  my  dear  Clar- 
rie,  I've  kept  my  latchkey.  Just  a  little  latchkey 
to  remind  me  of  you.  Ah!  I  always  was  a  senti- 
mental cuss.  It  has  never  left  me.  Before  the 
rolling  ball  at  Monte  Carlo  I've  fondled  it  so  that  it 
might  bring  me  luck.  It  didn't.  In  more  emotional 
moods,  in  America,  I've  sat  before  my  lonely  radi- 
ator, holding  in  my  hand  this  token  of  the  past  and 
dreaming  of  days  gone  by.  Just  a  little  latchkey, 
Clarrie,  I  shall  write  a  poem  about  it  one  day." 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  in  a 
184 


DISCORD 

suddenly  high  voice.  He  was  maddening  her.  She 
felt  that  this  drivel  had  a  significance,  that  he  used 
it  only  as  a  sort  of  prelude,  that  he  was  playing 
with  her  as  a  cat  with  a  mouse,  that  he  was  enjoying 
himself  like  a  vicious  schoolboy  that  has  played  a 
trick.  "What  do  you  want?"  she  said  again.  "Good 
heavens!  don't  I  know  you!  Don't  I?  ...  For 
heaven's  sake,  don't  make  me  rude." 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  should  be  rude, 
my  dear.  All  I  want  is  to  have  a  few  words  with 
my  wife.  Well  now,  aren't  you  pleased?  Weren't 
you  very  sorry  when  I  was  unavoidably  detained 
abroad  thirteen  years  ago  ?  I  was  unavoidably  de- 
tained. She  wouldn't  let  me  go.  But  you  always 
inhabited  my  dreams,  and  so  I  felt  I  wanted  one  of 
our  dear  old  chats." 

"Look  her,  Geoffrey,  you're  being  silly." 

"That's  better,"  said  Caldecot,  laughing  for  the 
first  time. 

"It  isn't  any  better.  Only  you're  being  silly  on 
purpose  to  annoy  me,  to  hide  something  else.  Don't 
I  know  you?" 

"If  you  did,  then  you  would  realize  that  I  have  an 
affectionate  nature.  Your  only  complaint  could  be 
that  this  nature  was  too  generous.  All  that  I  have 
come  to  say  is  just  this :  I  am  very  fond  of  you." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  after  a 
pause,  "I  can  almost  believe  you  have  the  .  .  . 
the  impertinence  to  mean  it.  You  might  very  well 

be  conceited  enough  to  think  that  I'd  have  affection 

185 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

for  you  after  three  years  of  hell  with  you,  three 
years  during  which  I  had  to  see  you  drunk,  drunk 
in  my  presence,  drunk  before  my  friends.  Oh, 
if  it  was  only  that,  I  suppose  I'd  have  stuck  it,  but 
you  think  I'm  going  to  ...  oh,  it's  ridiculous. 
You  made  me  a  joke  among  my  friends,  you  who 
could  never  let  a  woman  alone  if  she  was  under 
eighty.  Don't  you  think  I  know  you?  Don't  you 
think  I  don't  know  that  the  servants  weren't  safe 
from  you?  Even  on  our  honeymoon.  .  .  .  Don't 
make  me  talk  of  these  things.  It's  been  hell.  And 
hell  again  for  all  those  years,  when  I  was  a  woman 
who'd  been  deserted,  not  wanted,  a  failure,  an  object 
for  pity,  scrapped  by  a  drunkard  and  an  adulterer." 

"Clarrie,"  said  Caldecot,  as  he  slowly  lit  a  ciga- 
rette, "you've  increased  your  vocabulary  since  my 
day.  Well,  I'll  be  fair  and  square  with  you :  I'm 
quite  willing  to  overlook  the  past.  At  least,  it's  in 
your  hands  to  make  me  pleasant.  I  don't  want  to 
make  a  fuss,  dear  me,  no.  Only  you're  rather  rude, 
rather  hysterical,  I  suppose.  Natural  enough  under 
the  stress  of  reunion,  and  I  won't  say  another  word 
about  it." 

As  he  paused,  she  realized  that  she  was  right, 
that  something  deliberate  emanated  from  his  speech. 
"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  see.  This  interview  so  far  is  not 
very  agreeable,  Geoffrey." 

"Don't  call  me  Geoffrey,"  said  Caldecot,  protest- 
ing. "It  sounds  so  cold.  Call  me  Geoff,  and  let 

everything  be  rapture  and  roses." 

186 


DISCORD 

"What  do  you  want?"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot  again, 
and  this  time  stamped  upon  the  floor. 

"All  right,"  said  Caldecot,  "I'll  tell  you.  It's  a 
little  difficult  to  explain.  The  natural  delicacy 
which  is  so  strong  in  me  holds  me  back,  but 
the  fact  is  that  while  the  years  rolled  by,  even 
though  I  was  abroad,  I  never  forgot  you,  Clarrie, 
and  I  kept  upon  you  an  eye,  oh,  in  the  cause  of 
conjugal  tenderness,  of  course,  but  still  ...  an 
eye." 

"An  eye !"  repeated  Mrs.  Caldecot.  As  she  spoke, 
her  first  bewilderment  passed  away,  and  her  heart 
began  to  beat  faster.  She  was  frightfully  afraid, 
and  she  did  not  know  of  what,  but  just  of  the  idea 
that  this  man,  who  had  made  such  ruin  of  her  life, 
had  not  left  her  when  he  deserted  her,  that  still  he 
had  hung  about  her  life  an  evil  spirit. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,  my  dear,"  replied  Caldecot, 
blandly.  "Did  you  really  think  that  because  press- 
ing circumstances  called  me  abroad,  I  should  lose 
all  interest  in  one  so  near  and  so  dear?  Why,  I 
remember  on  our  honeymoon  in  Venice.  .  .  .  Oh, 
but  what's  the  use  of  talking  of  that!  Well,  well, 
time  goes  on.  Ah,  me !" 

"Geoffrey,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  in  a  surprisingly 
even  voice,  which  showed  that  already  she  had  col- 
lected her  strength,  preparing  to  fight,  "say  what 
you  mean." 

"Anything  to  please  you.  As  I  was  saying,  I 
always  liked  to  know  what  you  were  doing.  I  was 

187 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

so  sorry  to  think  that  you  might  be  lonely  .  .  . 
though  I  had  an  idea  that  wouldn't  last  long." 

"How  dare  you!" 

"I  dare  because  I  know.  Now,  now,  don't  blush, 
even  if  you  have  been  naughty.  And  don't  look  so 
tragic  and  clench  your  fists  at  me.  Bless  me,  I  don't 
blame  you.  Indeed,  I  was  quite  interested  when 
a  little  bird  told  me  that  you  were  lunching  and 
dining  out,  and  .  .  .  the  little  bird  even  twittered 
something  about  weekending  out,  and  always  in  the 
same  company." 

"I  suppose  you  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
choosing  aggression  as  her  method  of  defense,  "that 
after  you'd  gone  I  was  going  to  avoid  the  society 
of  my  friends,  that  I'd  sit  and  mourn  you." 

"No,  I  don't  think  you'd  do  that.  At  least,  no 
longer  than  was  decent.  I  gather  you  mourned  me 
for  five  years,  old  dear,  and  really  I  think  it  awfully 
sweet  of  you.  So  I  wasn't  surprised  when  I  was 
told  that  you  and  Mr.  Rodbourne,  M.  P.  for  East 
Farnshire  .  .  ." 

"Please  leave  him  out." 

"Afraid  you  didn't  give  me  the  example.  Can't 
be  done.  Can't  leave  Bobbie  out.  It's  too  late  for 
both  of  us."  Mrs.  Caldecot  looked  away.  What 
was  horrible  in  this  was  not  so  much  the  covert 
threat,  the  presence  so  near  her  of  the  intolerable ;  the 
horror  was  that  Caldecot  should  be  able  to  lay  upon 
a  memory  so  lovely  and  so  dear  hands  that  defiled  it. 

She  dared  say  nothing.    Any  reply  might  strengthen 

188 


DISCORD 

him  by  admission.  Fortunately  he  needed  no  reply. 
"But  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  reproach  you,  set 
your  mind  at  rest,  my  dear.  Did  I  ever  refuse  you 
anything  if  I  had  it?  Or  if  I  could  get  it  out  of 
anybody  else  who  had  it?  Never.  I  don't  want  to 
disturb  you.  It  would  be  a  terrible  thing  for  me  to 
disturb  two  lovers,  especially  if  they  made  it  worth 
my  while  to  let  them  alone."  He  paused.  "You 
don't  seem  to  understand,  Clarrie.  I  don't  want  to 
do  you  any  harm.  I  don't  mind  Bobbie.  Charming 
fellow,  I  expect.  I've  the  warmest  feeling  for  him, 
he  being  a  member  of  the  same  dynasty,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking.  Only  I'm  rather  hard  up,  and  since 
you  seem  in  a  mood  to  want  plain  speaking,  all  I've 
got  to  say  is,  if  you'll  let  me  have  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand, I'll  go  off  and  spend  it.  Then  we'll  say  no 
more  about  it;  you'll  have  no  more  trouble,  and 
you  can  indulge  in  your  grand  passion  on  the  q-t." 

It  was  his  brutal  tone  that  drove  Mrs.  Caldecot  to 
denials.  She  would  have  given  way  before  a  simple 
assertion,  but  he  enraged  her. 

"How  dare  you  insult  me !"  she  replied.  "It's  true 
you  always  dared  to  do  that,  from  the  very  beginning. 
You  always  thought,  I  suppose,  I  was  the  same  sort 
of  woman  as  you  are  a  man.  Well,  I  don't  care  what 
lies  your  pothouse  friends  have  been  telling  you." 

*<Wonderful  vocabulary !" 

"I  don't  care  what  lies  you're  trying  to  blackmail 
me  with.  You  can't  do  it  because  it  isn't  true.  Yes, 
I  know  Mr.  Rodboume.  He's  a  great  friend  of  mine. 

189 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

He's  been  the  one  good  friend  I  had,  all  those  years 
after  you  deserted  me.  My  friend,  do  you  hear? 
and  nothing  more.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  woman  .  .  . 
Good  Heavens,  don't  you  know  it  ?  I'm  not  a  light 
woman.  Yet  you  come  here  and  treat  me  like  the 
.  .  .  low  creatures  of  your  acquaintance." 

For  a  moment  Caldecot  believed  her.  He  did  not 
realize  that  the  violence  of  her  denials  had  nothing 
to  do  with  outraged  innocence,  but  only  with  out- 
raged romance.  He  wondered  if  he  had  been  mis- 
informed. After  all,  people  always  assumed  these 
things,  and  certainly  poor  old  Claire  had  always 
suggested  to  him  a  capital  imitation  of  cold  storage. 
Then  he  remembered  the  object  of  his  visit,  and  he 
countered :  "Well,  perhaps  you  didn't,  you  dear  old 
icicle,  but  I  want  my  couple  of  thousand  all  the 
same.  Simply  got  to  have  'em.  There's  a  lady  in 
the  case,  and  she's  dashed  expensive." 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  live  on  her  immoral  earn- 
ings?" 

"I  can  get  more  out  of  you  and  quicker." 

"How?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  so  frightened  of 
him  that  her  voice  grew  less  assured. 

"It's  quite  simple.  I'm  quite  willing  to  believe 
that  your  relations  with  Bobbie  are  the  pink  of 
propriety.  I  shouldn't  wonder.  There  are  women 
like  that.  But  it  doesn't  bother  me  a  bit.  Indeed, 
the  more  respectable  you  are  the  worse  it  is  for  you, 
old  dear." 

"I  don't  understand." 
190 


DISCORD 

"No  ?  Don't  you  see  that  if  you  were  the  darling 
of  the  night  clubs  and  were  advertised  every  now 
and  then  in  <cWhat  We  Want  To  Know,"  you 
wouldn't  have  any  bother.  I  couldn't  do  you  any 
more  harm  than  you  could  do  me.  But  you've  got 
something  to  lose,  and  that's  the  reputation  on 
which  you've  wasted  such  a  lot  of  good  time  keep- 
ing up."  His  voice  grew  harsh  and  his  eyes  more 
fixed  than  before  as  he  murmured,  "What's  going 
to  happen  to  you  if  I  serve  you  and  Bobbie  with  a 
writ  of  divorce?" 

Mrs.  Caldecot  laughed.  At  that  moment  he  admired 
her.  He'd  seen  many  a  woman  in  the  corner,  lying, 
bullying,  but  he  hadn't  heard  them  laugh  on  a  glad, 
ringing  note,  as  if  their  gallantry  welcomed  battle. 

"My  dear  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  in  contemptuous 
tones,  "don't  be  so  ridiculous.  You  know  quite 
well  you've  got  no  case." 

"That  wouldn't  prevent  me  bringing  one,"  said 
Caldecot,  politely. 

"Well,  you'd  lose  it,  and  pay  all  the  costs." 

"How  well  informed  you  are,  my  dear.  Can  it 
be  there  is  a  second  corespondent  to  be  found  in  the 
Temple?  But  I  shan't  bother  about  him.  Bobbie 
is  enough,  and  as  for  losing  my  case,  don't  you 
worry.  I  don't  mind  losing  my  case,  I  don't  mind 
piling  up  costs ;  I  shan't  pay  'em.  Since  I  couldn't 
pay,  my  creditors  a  shilling  in  the  pound,  it  won't 
matter  much  whether  I  reduce  their  dividend  to  nine- 
pence.  Come  on,  Clarrie,  don't  be  a  fool ;  pay  up." 

191 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

The  mood  of  gallantry  still  subsided.  Besides, 
she  was  beginning  to  find  it  incredible  and  burlesque 
that  she  should  be  blackmailed.  That  happened 
only  on  the  stage.  Mrs.  Caldecot  replied :  "Do  you 
really  think  I'm  going  to  submit  to  being  bled  by 
you  ?  I'll  fight  the  case,  fight  it  to  the  end." 

"You're  welcome.  So  you'll  make  all  the  row 
round  your  name  and  Bobbie's  without  any  help 
from  me?" 

It  was  then  that  weakness  came  over  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot. "Two  thousand  pounds!"  she  said.  "That 
won't  leave  me  much." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  will,  my  dear.  Surely  you  don't  think 
I  want  to  drive  you  to  the  workhouse  ?  Let  me  see. 
You  used  to  have  seven  hundred  and  forty-five 
pounds  a  year  out  of  your  marriage  settlement.  It's 
a  bit  less  now,  income  tax  having  gone  up,  but  that's 
something." 

"You  know  quite  well  I  can't  touch  it." 

"Of  course  I  know,  or  I'd  have  touched  it  long 
ago.  But  there's  the  unsettled  residue  of  your 
Aunt  Josephine's  estate,  which  in  my  time  was  com- 
fortably invested  in  London  North  Western  shares, 
Metropolitan  Four's  and  .  .  .  oh,  bother,  I  left  the 
list  at  home.  Still,  it  worked  out  at  about  three 
thousand;  even  now  it's  worth  more  than  two. 
Unless  you've  handed  it  all  over  to  Bobbie." 

At  this  insult  Mrs.  Caldecot  ran  to  her  desk. 
There  was  now  in  her  no  financial  prudence.  With 
trembling  hands  shestruggled  with  her  case,rummag- 

192 


DISCORD 

ing  among  bundles,  old  checks,  and  disused  account- 
books,  until  at  last  she  found  her  passbook  and 
a  large  envelope  bearing  a  solicitor's  imprint. 
"There,"  she  said,  as  she  threw  them  on  the  ground 
at  his  feet,  "pick  it  up  and  look  for  yourself." 

She  watched  him  with  clasped  hands  while  he  went 
through  the  passbook,  noting  the  dividends.  Now 
she  felt  amazingly  cool.  She  was  beaten,  yes,  and 
she  was  going  to  be  blackmailed.  Never  mind !  Any- 
thing to  make  an  end  of  this.  Finally  he  looked  up. 

"Well,  Clarrie,  I  can't  say  exactly  what  this  is 
worth  unless  you  happen  to  have  the  evening  paper 
so  that  I  can  look  up  the  quotations.  Still,  my 
word's  my  word.  I  said  two  thousand  pounds; 
Fll  let  you  off  at  that,  and  it's  cheap." 

She  hesitated,  for  she  hated  to  think  of  her  money 
in  this  man's  hands.  "It  won't  leave  me  much," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  will.  Leave  you  the  income  of  your 
marriage  settlement.  As  for  the  rest,  why  don't 
you  give  me  the  lot  and  make  an  end  of  it?  Then 
unless  of  course  you  want  me  to,  I'll  never  come 
round  again.  There  won't  be  any  points  in  my  doing 
so  when  I've  got  all  I  can  get  out  of  you.  Think 
of  it!  No  more  rows,  and  perfect  happiness  with 
Bobbie." 

This  repetition  of  the  name  enraged  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot.  "I  haven't  said  I'd  pay,"  she  replied,  breath- 
lessly, "and  I  won't." 

"Won't  you?"  said  Caldecot,  suavely.     "Would 
193 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

you  really  let  your  old  husband  go  without  the 
oysters  and  champagne  which  are  essential  to  his 
decrepit  existence?  What  a  shame!  I'll  have  to 
give  you  up  ...  and  ask  Bobbie." 

"You  wouldn't?  .  .  .» 

"Of  course  I  would.  Why  not.  He'd  be  pleased 
to  do  something  for  you.  If  I  were  in  his  shoes  I 
would.  If  I  were  a  member  of  Parliament  I  wouldn't 
fancy  a  little  divorce  case.  I  should  know  my  con- 
stituents wouldn't  like  it.  Bobbie'll  pay,  don't  you 
worry ;  in  fact,  I'll  look  him  up  and  see  if  I  can't 
get  a  bit  more  than  the  beggarly  two  thousand 
you're  good  for." 

As  he  spoke  Mrs.  Caldecot  made  to  herself  an 
awful  picture:  Bob  in  his  study,  picking  out  a 
speech  from  among  the  dear,  familiar  litter  of  dusty 
bluebooks,  scrawled  notes  on  envelopes  .  .  .  and 
even  letters  of  her  own.  No,  she  couldn't  bear  it. 
That  they  should  meet,  this  beast  of  prey  and  her 
beloved,  it  was  impossible.  Oh,  she  knew  Bob'd  face 
Jiim  all  right,  beat  him  perhaps,  gaol  him  as  he 
ought  to  be  gaoled,  but  the  idea  of  their  contact 
repelled  her.  The  thought  was  to  her  so  abomin- 
able that  suddenly  her  defenses  gave  way,  and,  to 
his  amazement,  Caldecot  saw  his  wife  fall  on  her 
knees  before  him,  clasp  her  hands  in  prayer,  and 
with  distorted  face,  with  dry  eyes,  confess. 

"Yes,  it's  true.  Yes,  I  do  love  him,  and  he  loves 
me.  He  did  love  me.  Oh,  my  God,  Geoffrey,  don't 

look  at  me  like  that.    Yes,  it's  true,  I  own  up.    I 

194 


DISCORD 

know  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it.  I  know  it  was 
wrong,  but  I  was  so  wretched,  I  was  so  lonely,  and 
you'd  left  me.  Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you  now;  I 
suppose  I  was  cold,  and  I  should  have  learned  how 
to  put  up  with  you.  I  ought  to  have  understood 
that  you  weren't  any  more  perfect  than  I  am,  I 
suppose.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  He  did  love  me 
so.  At  first  I  used  to  lie  awake  at  night,  crying; 
I  felt  so  dreadful.  When  I  was  a  girl,  if  I'd  thought 
I'd  do  a  thing  like  that  .  .  .  I'd  have  drowned  my- 
self. But  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  couldn't.  Oh,  I've 
done  wrong,  I  know  it,  but  don't  be  hard  on  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,"  replied  Calde- 
cot,  surveying  her  with  an  interested  air.  "You  only 
have  to  pay  up,  and  then  you  can  do  as  you  like." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  was  still  on  her  knees,  but  at  this 
speech  the  blood  rushed  to  her  head. 

"So  that's  all  you've  got  to  say,"  she  replied, 
clenching  her  teeth.  "Still,  since  you're  here,  I'm 
glad  you  know  that  I've  loved  another  man.  I'm 
glad  you  know  that  you  didn't  spoil  my  life  as 
you'd  like  to  have  done,  that  you  didn't  take  all  my 
pride  away,  do  you  hear  me?  I'm  glad.  Oh,  what 
nonsense  I've  been  talking  about  doing  wrong.  I  did 
right,  and  I  don't  care  if  all  the  world  knows  it. 
Yes,  I  did  right."  She  looked  beyond  him  with 
glowing  eyes.  "Oh,  it  was  splendid,  it  was  the  only 
true  thing,  the  only  decent  thing  I've  ever  done,  and 
if  I  had  to  live  again,  with  all  the  misery  I'm  going 

through  now,  all  the  misery  of  the  lonely  years,  all 

195 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

the  hell  of  my  life  with  you,  I'd  do  it  again,  I'd  have 
it  all  over  again,  just  to  feel  that  I  could  have  the 
pluck  once  more  to  do  the  right  thing  by  myself. 
Go  on,  blackmail  me  if  you  like,  I'll  not  say  I  was 
doing  wrong." 

"I  don't  want  you  to,  darling.  I  never  set  up 
as  a  judge  of  morals.  I  only  want  you  to  pay  up." 
He  grew  impatient.  "Come  on,  get  off  your  knees. 
The  attitude  doesn't  suit  you.  Get  up,  damn  you, 
I'm  not  going  to  waste  the  night  over  this."  She 
rose,  not  so  much  obeying  as  revolting  against  her 
own  posture.  "Are  you  going  to  pay  up?"  She 
did  not  reply.  "I  give  you  five  minutes.  If  I  get 
any  more  nonsense  from  you,  I'm  going  to  Bobbie 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  And  if  he  doesn't 
pay  up  you'll  have  a  writ  by  the  end  of  the  week. 
Do  you  hear?  A  writ.  Both  of  you,  and  I'll  see  it 
gets  into  the  papers  before  the  case  comes  on." 

It  was  then  that  a  new  complication  occurred 
to  Mrs.  Caldecot.  She  realized  that  if  this  could 
not  be  stopped,  if  Rodbourne,  like  herself,  refused 
to  be  bled,  the  publicity  which  would  immediately 
collect  round  his  name  because  he  was  a  member  of 
Parliament  would  reach  Patricia.  That  would  be 
the  end.  Bob  would  not  only  lose  his  seat,  but  he'd 
lose  Patricia,  lose  the  girl  for  whom  in  a  way  she'd 
sacrificed  herself.  She  opened  her  mouth  to  say: 
"I'll  pay,"  but  her  gallantry  stopped  her.  She  didn't 
know  why,  she  merely  felt  that  she  couldn't  give  in. 

She  must  try  again. 

196 


DISCORD 

"Geoffrey,"  she  said,  "don't  do  that.  There's 
something  else.  It's  true  about  Bob  and  me,  yes — 
that  is  to  say,  it  was.  But  I  haven't  seen  him  fur 
some  months.  He's  going  to  be  married." 

"Oh,  ho !  So  he's  given  you  the  chuck." 

"He's  going  to  be  married,"  replied  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot,  trying  to  forget  Geoffrey's  reply.  "And  she's 
such  a  sweet  girl.  They  love  each  other,  just  as 
they  ought,  and  they're  going  to  be  so  frightfully 
happy.  Oh,  Geoff,  don't  do  it;  she's  so  young, 
only  twenty.  For  God's  sake,  Geoffrey,  don't  do 
it ;  Bob's  trying  to  make  a  fresh  start,  and  she,  itll 
kill  her.  You've  smashed  my  life,  never  mind  that, 
but  don't  smash  theirs.  Don't  get  in  the  way  of  the 
little  happiness  they  can  hope  for." 

'"What  about  my  happiness?"  said  Caldecot. 
**Don't  I  count?  And  my  idea  of  happiness  is  two 
thousand  quid.  Come  on,  pay  up,  and  look  pleasant. 
If  you  don't  .  .  .  Why,  Clarrie,  you  give  me  an 
idea.  Now  I've  got  the  bulge  on  Bobbie.  Perhaps 
he'd  be  glad  to  get  out  of  Parliament,  and  he 
wouldn't  worry  about  your  reputation  since  he's 
given  you  the  chuck.  But  now  there's  a  girl  in  the 
case.  Oh,  ho!  perhaps  I  shan't  let  him  off  so 
cheap." 

"Geoffrey,  I  beg  you." 

"And  wait  a  minute,  you  give  me  another  idea, 
you  human  wonder.  Look  here,  I'll  make  you  a 
proposition :  you  give  me  this  two  thousand  pounds 

that  we  were  talking  about.    But  that's  not  the  end 

197 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

of  it.  To-morrow  morning  I'll  go  round  to  Bobbie, 
and  I'll  say  to  him :  You  pay  up  another  two  thou- 
sand ;  if  not  you'll  be  a  co-respondent.  Then,  my 
dear  Clarrie,  believe  me  Fm  thinking  only  of  your 
interests,  he'll  squirm  a  bit.  If  he  pays  all's  well; 
if  he  doesn't  pay,  I  serve  him  with  a  writ.  Then 
watch  the  Sunday  newspapers.  The  girl  gets  to 
hear  of  it.  She  drops  him  and  you  get  him  back. 
Don't  you  see,  Clarrie,  I  can  do  you  a  jolly  good 
turn.  I  can  get  him  back  for  you." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  could  not  reply  for  a  moment. 
Even  from  Geoffrey  she  had  not  expected  such  base- 
ness. She  did  not  believe  that  there  was  a  husband 
capable  of  blackmailing  a  lover  into  returning  to 
his  own  wife.  But  the  peril  of  Patricia  was  oppress- 
ing her.  "I  don't  want  your  intervention,"  she  said. 
"You  know  nothing  about  it.  You  wouldn't  under- 
stand, I  suppose,  if  I  told  you  that  I  want  this 
marriage,  that  I  want  their  happiness  more  than 
anything  in  the  world,  that  I  couldn't  bear  that 
anything  should  come  between  them." 

"Oh,"  said  Caldecot,  "then  I'm  on  velvet  again. 
If  you  don't  pay  up,  I  do  come  between  them.  Now 
there's  been  enough  argument.  It's  a  quarter  past 
ten.  And  I've  a  little  friend  waiting  for  me.  Sit 
down  and  write  me  a  check  for  two  thousand 
pounds.  Also,  write  a  letter  to  your  bank  asking 
them  to  sell  your  securities  and  to  honor  this  check, 
pending  sale.  Come  on,  hurry  up.  I  don't  give 

you  five  minutes  now.    I  give  you  one.    If  you  don't, 

198 


DISCORD 

I  go  round  to  my  solicitors  to-morrow  and  do  you 
in,  and  do  Bobbie  in,  and  do  the  marriage  in.  And 
do  not  for  a  moment  allow  yourself  to  think  I'm 
joking." 

It  was  then,  as  Mrs.  Caldecot  stood  before  him, 
irresolute  and  not  quite  beaten,  that  the  drawing- 
room  door  opened  to  admit  Maud,  without  cap  or 
apron.  For  a  moment  the  maid  stared  at  the  man, 
not  understanding  how  he  got  into  the  house,  and 
wondering  whether  her  mistress  had  let  him  in.  Then 
she  said : 

"Please,  Ma'am,  may  I  speak  to  you  for  a 
moment  ?" 

"No,  Maud,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  in  an  irritated 
voice,  "not  now.  What  is  it?" 

*1f  you  please,  Ma'am,  Miss  Neale  is  downstairs. 
She  says  she  must  see  you." 

"Patricia!" 
14 


CHAPTER  X 

TWO   WOMEN 

"\\  THO?"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot. 

VV     "Miss  Neale,  Ma'am." 

"But  ...  at  this  time?"    What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  that  you'd  gone  to  bed,  Ma'am.  At  least 
I  thought  so,  but  I'd  go  and  see." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  say  I  was  out?  This  is  absurd. 
Tell  her  I'm  out,  Maud.  Oh,  what  does  she  want  ?" 

"Very  well,  Ma'am.  But  as  the  drawing-room 
windows  are  open  I  knew  she  would  see  the  light, 
Ma'am." 

"Oh,  this  is  intolerable,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
wringing  her  handkerchief.  "Tell  her  I'm  ill." 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  Maud,  Calde- 
cot said:  "Well,  you've  had  more  than  your  time, 
so  come  along.  Go  to  the  desk." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  was  not  looking  at  him.  She  stood 
twisting  and  untwisting  her  handkerchief,  seemed 
distracted.  "Oh,  what  can  she  want?"  she  said. 
"At  this  time  of  night !  Something's  happened." 

"You'll  find  out  what's  happened  by  and  bye," 
said  Caldecot.  "Hurry  up;  I  can't  stay  here  all 

night." 

200 


TWO  WOMEN 

"Oh,  Geoffrey,  do  let  me  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot,  rubbing  the  handkerchief  over  her  hot  hands. 
"I  can't  think.  Oh,  do  let  me  alone.  Give  me  a 
day,  just  one  day.  You  shall  have  what  you  want, 
but  do  ,  .  .  What's  that?" 

"Seems  to  be  a  fuss  on  the  stairs,"  remarked 
Caldecot. 

"Listen !"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot.  They  could  hear 
the  sounds  of  an  altercation.  A  high  voice  cried: 
"I  must."  Then  Maud's  voice:  "But  Miss  .  .  .! 
really  Miss !  .  .  .  she's  ill  I  tell  you." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "She's 
forcing  her  way  in.  Geoffrey,  she  mustn't  find  you 
here." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Caldecot,  while  a  broad 
smile  creased  his  thin  mouth.  "Am  I  not  your  long- 
lost  but  happily  restored  husband?"  He  took  out 
a  cigarette  with  an  air  of  negligence.  "Don't  do 
your  friend  out  of  this  pathetic  scene  of  domestic 
reconciliation." 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
desperately.  "She  thinks  I'm  a  widow.  Most  people 
think  I'm  a  widow,  and  if  people  know  you've  come 
back  the  scandal's  going  to  start  all  over  again. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  She's  coming !"  Indeed,  they 
heard  Patricia  say  in  a  quiet,  determined  voice: 
"It's  no  use  your  trying  to  stop  me.  I'm  going  to 
see  her."  "Geoffrey,  I  can't  bear  it.  You  mustn't 
see  her.  I  can't  have  it  begin  all  over  again.  All 
the  talk.  You  shall  have  what  you  want,  anything 

201 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

you  want.  Only  .  .  .  Oh,  where?  Geoff,  in  here." 
She  ran  to  the  folding  doors.  "Hide  in  the  ell." 

"Two  thousand  quid,"  said  Caldecot,  calmly. 
"Hurry  up  or  I'll  add  a  bit  on." 

"All  right,  I  agree.    Only  hide  in  here." 

"Word  of  honor?" 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Caldecot  closed  the  doors  upon  the 
intruder  just  as  Maud  and  Patricia  together  ir- 
rupted into  the  drawing-room,  both  flushed,  the  girl 
with  a  face  set  like  a  little  white  mask,  the  maid 
indignant  and  almost  tearful. 

Mrs.  Caldecot,  in  the  few  seconds  of  grace,  had 
found  time  to  collect  energy,  to  make  ready  with 
a  pitying  heart,  but  with  calm  features,  to  receive 
an  assault  the  cause  of  which  she  did  not  know, 
an  assault  of  some  sort,  for  which  she  was  making 
ready  with  a  sort  of  cold  courage. 

"Ma'am !"  cried  Maud,  "it  isn't  my  fault,  Ma'am. 
I'm  very  sorry,  only  Miss  Neale  .  .  ." 

"That  will  do,  Maud,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  gently, 
and  even  managing  to  throw  her  a  little  smile. 
"Leave  us.  It's  all  a  misunderstanding." 

After  the  door  closed,  Patricia  did  not  at  once 
come  further  into  the  room.  She  stood  with  hands 
clasped  upon  her  breast,  erect  and  rather  defiant. 
They  made  a  contrast  those  two,  the  big  woman 
in  blue  satin  and  gold,  massive  and  powerful,  with 
quiet,  gray  eyes  and  thick  lips  well-set;  the  girl, 
absurdly  small  in  her  combative  pose,  white  and 

pitiful  in   her  little   dance   frock   of    champagne 

202 


TWO  WOMEN 

georgette,  that  was  cut  much  too  low  in  front  and 
exposed  unduly  her  fragile  shape,  as  if  in  London 
at  last  she  had  decided  to  exceed.  Falling  away 
from  her  shoulders  was  her  cloak  of  black  velvet 
edged  with  swansdown ;  even  then  Mrs.  Caldecot  was 
still  woman  enough  to  realize  that  Patricia  was 
wearing  her  winter  cloak.  They  were  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes,  already  inimical,  but  hesitating 
like  two  wrestlers  seeking  a  grip.  Both  knew  that 
even  now  all  might  be  explained  and  covered  up,  if 
only  nothing  decisive  were  said ;  both  were  afraid  of 
the  first  word,  that  would  create  a  situation  which 
must  affect  them  deeply.  So  strong  was  this  feel- 
ing that  it  was  Mrs.  Caldecot  who  attacked.  And 
she  attacked  in  a  light,  feminine  way,  of  which  the 
younger  girl,  would,  in  her  experience,  have  been 
incapable. 

"I  see  you've  come  round  between  two  dances. 
Was  it  a  dull  dance?" 

Patricia  stared  at  her.  She  hadn't  expected  to 
begin  like  this,  so  was  led  away.  "Dance?  O,  yes, 
of  course.  I  just  got  away  for  a  moment.  I  had 
to  see  you." 

As  the  girl  stopped,  Mrs.  Caldecot  found  a  little 
pity  mixing  with  her  anxiety.  Then  she  resented 
this  emotion,  and  her  words  grew  cold.  "Indeed?  I 
suppose  you  can  explain  this  violent  intrusion?  I 
think  my  maid  told  you  that  I  couldn't  see  you. 
But  you  seem  to  have  insisted." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Caldecot,"  said  Patricia,  her  anger 
203 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

and  her  plan  disturbed  by  this  attack  upon  her 
manners,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I  know  I  oughtn't  to 
have  done  it,  only  something's  happened.  You  see, 
ten  days  ago  Bob  was  thrown  from  his  horse  .  .  ." 

"What?"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot,  coming  toward 
her.  "Is  he  hurt?"  She  felt  no  enmity  now,  only 
immense  fear. 

"No,"  said  Patricia,  "not  exactly,  not  badly ; 
he's  going  to  be  all  right.  I  thought  you  knew." 
Her  voice  became  savage.  "I  thought  of  course 
you  knew." 

"Is  he  out  of  danger?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  as 
if  she  did  not  understand  the  imputation,  as  if  her 
only  care  were  the  well-being  of  the  man  for  whom 
those  two  were  fighting. 

"Yes,"  said  Patricia  with  an  effort.  "There's 
nothing  to  fear  now.  Only  you  see  .  .  .  Mr.  Sutton 
let  him  try  a  new  horse  .  .  .  oh,  never  mind  those 
details.  He  fell  on  his  head.  He  might  have  been 
killed." 

"Go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  tensely. 

"It  was  ten  days  ago,  and  I've  been  with  him 
night  and  day.  He  was  delirious  for  two  days." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  as  the  girl 
stopped,  seeming  unable  to  speak.  "Go  on,  go  on, 
what's  the  matter?" 

"He  called  for  you  all  the  time,"  murmured  Pa- 
tricia. Then,  in  a  stronger  tone.  "Yes,  he  called 
only  for  you.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  All  the  time  he 

was  saying  'Claire,  where's  Claire.'     Oh,  I  can't 

204 


TWO  WOMEN 

bear  it."  Her  voice  suddenly  rose  to  a  shriek.  "He 
put  his  arms  round  my  neck  and  called  me  Claire. 
Oh,  don't  stand  looking  at  me  like  that.  Haven't 
you  done  me  enough  harm?  Why  don't  you  own  up, 
Mrs.  Caldecot?  It's  been  you  he  loves.  You  know 
it  quite  well.  Don't  stare  at  me.  You  know  it's 
you  he  loves,  not  me." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  felt  herself  drawing  up  her 
shoulders,  a  faint  warmth  of  pleasure  in  the  contest 
came  into  her  blood.  Raising  her  eyebrows,  she 
replied,  "Nonsense!" 

The  denial  seemed  to  infuriate  Patricia.  "Oh, 
it's  all  very  well  your  saying  'nonsense.'  Of  course 
you  would.  Of  course  you'd  deny  it.  You  deny 
the  things  I  can  see,  things  that  everybody  knows. 
Now  I  understand  all  those  hints." 

"Hints!"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "What  do  you 
mean?  What's  all  this  idle  cackle  that  you've  col- 
lected to  insult  me  with?" 

"Oh,  it's  not  cackle,"  said  Patricia,  bitterly. 
"You  know  quite  well  it's  true.  Why  don't  you 
own  up  and  let  me  make  an  end  of  this?  People 
have  said  things  to  me  ...  about  your  being  great 
friends.  What  a  fool  I  was !" 

"No,  you  weren't,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  quietly. 
"But  you  are  a  fool  now.  I  think  you'd  better  go. 
Don't  imagine  I'm  going  to  take  unlimited  imper- 
tinence from  a  little  chit  just  escaped  from  school." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Caldecot,"  cried  Patricia,  suddenly, 
"don't  be  nasty  to  me,  I  can't  bear  it."  The  energy 

206 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

she  had  collected  for  this  interview  seemed  sud- 
denly to  exhaust  itself.  With  uncertain  steps  she 
went  to  the  sofa,  and  there  flung  herself,  weeping,  a 
crumpled  little  heap  of  delicate  stuffs.  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  at  the  curly 
head  buried  in  a  cushion,  at  a  slim  foot,  gold-shod 
and  stockinged  in  a  silk  which  clashed  with  the 
frock.  She  was  sorry  for  Patricia,  but  sorry  in  a 
strange,  impersonal  way,  as  if  the  girl  were  an 
object  for  charity,  for  which  one  must  do  something 
if  one  can,  but  without  too  much  emotion.  And,  she 
felt  helpless,  did  not  know  what  to  do.  After  a 
moment  Patricia's  sobs  ceased,  as  if  she  had  not 
enough  vigor  even  to  weep.  She  lifted  up  a  little 
wet  face,  and  said  in  a  white  voice : 

"Take  him  back.  He  never  belonged  to  me.  It's 
breaking  my  heart,  but  you  can't  help  it.  Take  him 
back,  since  it's  you  he  loves." 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  feeling 
motherly,  and  laying  a  hand  upon  a  shoulder  that 
first  revolted  and  then  lay  quiescent,  "you're  not 
yourself  to-night;  you've  taken  a  silly  fancy  and 
it's  upset  you.  Of  course  you'd  misunderstand 
things." 

"What  is  there  to  misunderstand?"  asked  Patri- 
cia miserably. 

"When  you've  lived  a  little  longer  you'll  know 
what  the  world  is  like.  It's  such  a  beastly  world 
that  it  thinks  everybody  beastly.  The  world  is  so 

incapable  of  friendship  that  it  cannot  believe  in 

206 


TWO  WOMEN 

friendship  between  a  man  and  a  woman  unless 
they're  ninety.  The  world's  like  that,  and  that's 
why  all  this  tittle-tattle  has  arisen  to  injure  your 
happiness.  But  it  shan't;  we  won't  let  it.  Take 
your  happiness  while  you  can ;  you  won't  often  get 
the  chance." 

For  a  moment  Patricia  seemed  convinced.  She 
looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  elder  woman,  as  if 
she  sought  there  a  confirmation  of  her  own  desire. 
To  be  reassured,  to  feel  that  everything  was  all 
right!  But  just  as  Mrs.  Caldecot  added,  "It  was 
only  a  great  friendship,"  Patricia,  looking  at  her  so 
close,  impressed  by  her  beauty  of  that  night,  the 
splendid  gray  eyes,  the  beautiful  white  skin,  the 
splendor  of  the  broad  shoulders  in  their  garment  of 
violent  blue,  could  not  believe.  She  knew  just  enough 
of  men  and  women  to  realize  that  no  man  could  for 
many  years  have  resisted  Mrs.  Caldecot,  even  as  she 
was  then.  So  it  infuriated  her  to  feel  that  plau- 
sible argument  and  experienced  lying  were  going  to 
overwhelm  her.  She  revolted  against  the  charm 
that  was  being  thrown  over  her.  Shaking  off  her 
hand,  and  jumping  up,  her  face  rather  near  that 
of  her  antagonist,  she  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Friendship !  How  could  you  be  friends  with  Bob 
and  leave  it  at  that?  Oh,  this  is  ridiculous.  Of 
course  there's  no  friendship  between  men  and  women. 
I've  known  that  since  I  was  fifteen,  and  so  have  you. 
So  don't  stand  there  trying  to  make  me  believe  that 
you  haven't  deceived  me.  And  Bob's  deceived  me. 

207 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

I  know  all  about  it.  Mother  and  I  had  tea  at 
his  flat  just  after  we  came  back  to  town.  There 
were  two  pictures  of  you  in  the  sitting  room,  and 
I  found  another  in  a  sort  of  locket.  Your  face, 
years  ago." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  reasonably,  "what 
harm  is  there  in  that?  Bob's  a  great  friend  of 
mine,  and  he  always  will  be  ...  if  you'll  let  him." 

"He's  more  than  your  friend.  When  he  was 
looking  for  something  to  show  me,  he  took  some  let- 
ters from  a  drawer  and  put  them  on  his  desk.  They 
were  typewritten,  and  I  couldn't  help  reading." 

"Typewritten  love  letters  from  me?"  asked  Mrs. 
Caldecot  lightly. 

"Oh,  don't  go  on  denying.  I  just  saw  two  while 
he  was  searching.  They  were  lying  there  on  the 
desk.  There  was  one  from  the  cricket  club  asking 
if  you'd  arrange  their  social — as  usual." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  reply ;  it  was  not  that  this 
evidence  incriminated  her,  but  the  memories,  the 
memories  of  the  time  when  she  worked  for  him, 
moved  her  more  than  those  of  more  emotional 
moments. 

"It  isn't  only  that,"  Patricia  went  on.  "He 
wouldn't  talk  of  you.  Don't  you  understand? 
When  I  talked  about  you  he  changed  the  conver- 
sation. He  can't  bear  it;  he's  marrying  me  only 
because  he  wants  a  wife." 

"Don't  be  absurd." 

"I'm  not  absurd,"  cried  Patricia.     "I've  been 

208 


TWO  WOMEN 

absurd  until  now,  yes,  but  now  I  see  things  as  they 
are.  Oh,  how  can  you  have  been  so  blind  ?" 

"My  dear  child  .  .  ." 

"Don't  call  me  'my  dear  child.'  I'm  a  woman. 
I  wasn't  until  ten  days  ago,  but  I  am  now,  after  all 
that  I've  been  going  through.  He  just  wants  a 
wife,  and  he  thought  I'd  do ;  he  never  loved  me  and 
he  lied  to  me.  He  was  loving  you  all  the  time  and 
only  you.  Oh,  I  can  see  why  he  loves  you ;  men  are 
like  that,  I  suppose;  they  care  only  for  women's 
faces.  And  it  doesn't  matter  who  she  is,  not  even 
though  she's  a  woman  like  you."  With  growing 
bitterness  she  added,  "A  woman  like  you,  about 
whom  no  one  knows  anything  except  that  she's  a 
widow,  and  yet  that  she  isn't  a  widow,  and  all  the 
same  she  hasn't  got  a  husband." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  drew  back,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
she  might  do  the  girl  violence.  In  a  low  tone  she 
replied:  "So  you've  come  here  to  insult  me,  have 
you?  Let  me  tell  you  again  that  you  may  go  too 
far  in  your  insolence." 

"Well,  it's  true." 

"It's  not  true,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  and  her  eyes 
opened  wide  as  a  thought  came  to  her.  "It's  not 
true."  She  swallowed,  for  this  effort,  the  thing 
she  now  had  to  do,  even  for  the  sake  of  Bob,  was 
very  difficult.  So  for  a  moment  she  used  dignity  as 
a  protection:  "It's  not  true.  I'll  make  you  sorry 
that  you've  taken  it  upon  yourself  to  insult  a  woman 
because  her  husband's  business  takes  him  abroad. 

209 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Til  have  you  know,  not  only  that  I'm  not  a  widow, 
and  that  I've  got  a  husband,  but  that  he's  in  that 
room."  She  pointed  to  the  ell :  "Yes,  in  that  room, 
reading  the  evening  paper.  He  uses  it  as  a  smoking- 
room  when  he's  at  home."  Patricia  looked  at  her, 
terrified  and  abashed.  "In  that  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Caldecot,  still  pointing.  Then,  in  a  drawing-roomy 
voice,  "I  should  be  charmed  for  you  to  make  his 
acquaintance."  With  even  step,  taut  with  sacrifice, 
and  extraordinarily  resolute,  Mrs.  Caldecot  went  to 
the  ell,  opened  the  doors  and  said :  "Geoff rey,  come 
in  here  for  a  moment,  will  you?  I  want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  my  friend,  Miss  Neale." 

Patricia  stared  at  the  man  who  came  in.  She 
understood  of  the  situation  only  that  she  had  made 
a  fool  of  herself,  one  of  those  impossible,  raw  fools, 
as  young  girls  do  when  they  presume  upon  slight 
knowledge.  After  a  moment,  a  hot  blush  of  shame 
covered  her  features,  and  she  turned  away,  as  if  she 
could  not  bear  to  look  at  them.  Then  her  shame 
grew  vocal.  Feeling  in  a  state  of  inferiority  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Caldecot  in  a  faint  voice,  "Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon."  Then  for  the  first  time  she  smiled, 
a  happy  smile  of  childish  security  and  incredulous 
relief,  a  lovely,  youthful  smile  that  obscured  all 
doubt,  set  aside  all  despair.  With  an  impulsive 
gesture  she  seized  the  elder  woman's  hand  and,  look- 
ing up  with  wet  eyes,  said  in  a  whisper,  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Caldecot  .  .  .  I'm  so  happy." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN    BRITFORD 

INTO  the  broad  court,  that  morning,  the  sun 
poured  itself  out,  powdered  with  dust.  The 
plane  trees  were  heavy  with  insect  life,  and  above 
the  fountain  the  pigeons  busily  circled,  or  pecked 
among  the  gravel  for  stray  seeds.  Stephen  Britf ord 
looked  out  upon  the  blackened  block  of  the  Georgian 
building  opposite,  where  now  the  sun  cast  rosy 
tints.  It  always  pleased  him,  this  outlook,  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  Temple.  Half  his  life  he  had  en- 
joyed this  serenity,  the  mellow  calm  of  the  old  inn. 
But  this  morning  it  gave  him  nothing;  it  held  for 
him  no  hint  of  the  unimportance  of  things,  of  the 
indifference  of  life  to  the  living.  He  sighed,  and 
once  more  took  up  Bradshaw,  in  which  he  had  been 
seeking  inspiration  for  a  holiday.  The  courts 
would  rise  next  month.  Scotland?  Deauville?  For 
a  moment  he  wondered  whether  he'd  care  for  the 
Norwegian  fjords,  which  he  had  never  visited.  But, 
all  at  once,  a  sort  of  weakness  came  upon  the  hard 
little  K.  C.  He  put  down  the  book.  At  home  or 
abroad,  what  did  it  matter?  What  reason  had  he 

to  leave  town  at  all,  except  that  if  he  stayed  the 

211 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

desertion,  the  inactivity  of  the  place  would  force 
him  more  deeply  into  a  self  where  he  found  no  rest. 
He  was  very  unhappy,  and  repose  increased  his 
unhappiness;  only  movement  helped  him;  that  was 
why  he  got  up  to  walk  about  the  room. 

It  was  a  beautiful  room.  It  had  none  of  the 
dinginess,  the  dustiness  of  so  many  rooms  in  the 
Temple.  The  high  wainscoting  of  oak  was  sur- 
mounted by  brown  paper.  The  stained  boards  were 
almost  entirely  concealed  by  a  great  Persian  carpet 
of  delicate  fritillarian  design.  He  worked  at  a 
large  Louis  XVI  bureau,  scrolled,  inlaid,  bebrassed, 
a  bureau  for  megrims  and  periwigs.  And,  because 
Britford  loved  space,  there  were  only  two  fine  old 
Queen  Anne  chairs,  one  for  himself,  one  for  visitors. 
Against  one  wall  stood  a  tallboy  of  Spanish  mahog- 
any, exquisitely  inlaid  with  a  lighter  wood.  Though 
this  furniture  had  neighbored  him  for  twenty-five 
years,  Britford  often  found  pleasure  in  its  recog- 
nized beauty,  in  its  self -assuredness ;  his  furniture 
had  been  praised  for  hundreds  of  years,  but  re- 
mained superior  to  admiration.  It  accorded  in  per- 
fect harmony  with  the  old  buildings  of  the  silent 
court.  All  the  same,  that  heavy  summer  morning, 
Britford  knew  that  these  accessories  of  the  com- 
fortable life  were  not  enough,  that  he  harbored 
desires,  despairing  hopes,  perhaps  even  ambitions, 
and  that  all  this  still  life  was  not  life.  He  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  out.  Two  workmen  went 

by,  carrying  tool  bags.  A  small  boy  rushed  through 

212 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

the  court  into  a  black  passage ;  a  girl  passed ;  one 
of  the  workmen  turned  to  look  back  at  her.  Not 
much  was  happening  in  the  court,  but  the  work- 
man's gesture,  as  he  turned,  the  sudden  view  of 
his  rather  pleasant,  blunt  young  features,  that  were 
for  a  second  comically  splashed  with  sunlight  per- 
colating through  the  leaves  of  the  plane  trees — 
somehow  that  hurt  Stephen  Britford,  Britford, 
K.C.,  almost  famous  .  .  .  and  almost  fifty. 

He  thought:  "If  I  wasn't  fifty  I  suppose  she 
would."  But  he  knew  that  he  was  wrong  and 
unjust;  it  wasn't  because  he  was  fifty  that  Mrs. 
Caldecot  would  not  listen  to  him.  She'd  refused 
him  when  he  was  thirty-two,  refused  him  at  forty,  re- 
fused him  again  the  other  day.  No,  it  wasn't  that, 
it  wasn't  youth,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  almost 
ashamed  of  himself  for  having  thought  that  a  woman 
such  as  that  could  be  lost  by  wrinkles  and  gray  hair. 
She  didn't  love  him,  never  had.  If  he  told  him- 
self that  it  was  because  he  was  fifty,  it  was  because 
the  immense  doggedness  of  his  character  sug- 
gested that  if  he  still  had  twenty  years  before  him, 
he'd  hunt  her  down  yet.  Hunt  her  down!  Yes, 
that  was  the  thing.  He'd  been  doing  it  for  eighteen 
years,  hunting  her  in  the  open  when  she  was  a  maid, 
and  waiting  when  she  was  wedded,  hunting  her  again 
when  Geoffrey  went  away,  waiting  again,  and  now 
once  more  in  the  open  .  .  .  tally  ho!  He  smiled. 
He  felt  ridiculous,  but  it  was  a  bitter  little  smile, 

a  smile  which  promised  no  success.     He'd  hunted 

213 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

her  all  his  life,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  give  in  while 
his  quarry  was  alive  and  he'd  breath  to  run.  But, 
as  he  reflected  how  often  she  had  eluded  him,  how 
vain  had  been  this  pursuit,  a  sort  of  rage  seized 
him.  Yes,  he  wanted  to  hunt  her  down,  not  only 
for  the  enjoyment  of  his  prey,  but  for  the  joy  of 
capture,  perhaps  to  humiliate  her  a  little,  to  hold 
her  so  and  say  to  himself,  "You  thought  you'd 
get  away  but  you  didn't."  To  tell  her  so,  indeed, 
to  make  her  feel  small,  and  captured,  and  dominated. 
He  hated  Mrs.  Caldecot  as  much  as  he  loved  her. 
Only,  just  now,  a  certain  obstacle  was  forcing  itself 
upon  his  relentlessness.  He'd  been  pursuing  her  so 
long:  was  he  getting  tired?  Tired  of  her?  Oh,  no. 
He  knew  he  couldn't  be  that;  he  knew  that  for 
him  the  years  had  brought  no  change  in  this 
woman,  except  that  experience  of  life  had  increased 
her  charm.  He  could  truthfully  tell  himself 
that  he'd  love  her  when  she  was  faded  and  white- 
haired,  love  her  as  a  fretful  old  woman  in  a 
bathchair. 

The  quality  of  Britford's  passion  was  the  same 
as  the  quality  of  his  mind ;  he  was  capable  of  love 
without  end  as  of  effort  without  end;  desire  and 
determination  were  twin  in  his  character.  Only  he 
began  to  see  that  he  might  fail.  He  had  not  failed 
often  in  other  attempts;  he  had  obtained  all  the 
legal  rewards  he  wanted;  he  had  refused  a  judge- 
ship  the  other  day;  twice  he  had  refused  a  seat 

in  Parliament.  The  things  he  had  not  he  might  have 

214 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

had  if  he  fancied.  Such  women  as  he  had  desired 
in  a  casual  way  had  come  to  him  readily  enough. 
He  had  known  his  failures,  however,  just  as  now 
and  then  he  had  known  defeat  in  the  courts.  Only 
one  big  thing  had  escaped  him,  and  he  began  to 
fear,  though  he  would  not  acknowledge  it  quite,  that 
it  might  escape  him  altogether.  So  now,  standing 
at  his  window,  Stephen  Britford  was  conscious  of 
discouragement.  If  he  had  been  old,  if  unsuccess- 
ful, it  might  not  have  been  so  bad,  for  then  he  might 
have  been  completely  hopeless  and  would  have  been 
dominated  by  material  cares,  wondering  how  to 
make  a  living,  or  seeking  a  cure  for  gout.  He  had 
not  this  good  fortune.  As  he  stood  there,  neatly 
clad  in  steel  gray  in  his  well-fitting  brown  shoes,  so 
well  groomed  and  so  well  barbered,  elegant  and 
slim,  he  did  not  look  fifty.  He  was  a  man  at  his 
highest  point  of  intellectual  activity,  in  perfect 
health,  intelligent  and  virile.  Yet  all  this  energy 
could  not  give  him  the  woman  he  wanted.  He 
thought,  "I've  done  all  I  can."  Yes,  he  had  done 
all  he  could,  pursued,  served,  tempted,  comforted, 
loved;  he'd  done  all  he  could,  and  yet  he  had  not 
succeeded.  That  humiliated  him;  for  a  moment 
Stephen  Britford  felt  small.  Small  too  seemed  his 
successes,  and  his  reputation  did  not  help  him.  He 
felt  small  as  a  man,  smaller  indeed  than  the  young 
workman  who  had  looked  round.  Perhaps,  too,  as 
she  turned  the  corner,  the  girl  had  looked  round. 
There  might  have  been  nothing  more,  but  for  a 
15  215 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

moment  those  two  would  have  mingled  their  smiles. 
How  easy  some  people  had  it ! 

Stephen  Britford  walked  about  the  room  again, 
and  almost  at  once  a  revolt  rose  in  him  against 
this  sense  of  humiliation.  He  couldn't  get  her. 
Couldn't  he?  He  could  go  on,  yes;  he  could  do 
that,  and  perhaps  he'd  wear  her  down  in  the  end. 
It  enraged  him  to  think  that  he  should  be  repulsed, 
and  he  could  not  help  wishing  that  he  had  been 
born  in  another  period,  when  he  could  have  hired 
some  ruffians,  packed  her  into  a  chaise,  and  driven 
her  off  to  Gretna  Green.  He  put  aside  this  fancy ; 
what  was  the  use  of  thinking  of  eighteenth-century 
ways  two  hundred  years  late?  He  was  wretched 
just  then.  He  hated  her  having  lied  to  him  a  few 
days  ago,  when  she  told  him  that  she  was  going 
away  for  the  weekend,  while  he  himself  saw  her 
cross  Bond  Street  on  the  Saturday  afternoon.  Just 
to  avoid  him !  Oh,  he  didn't  mind  her  lying :  indeed 
he  liked  that :  in  his  view  it  made  her  more  feminine ; 
it  made  her  weak.  Instead  of  facing  him  with  a  "no" 
she  had  avoided  him.  There  was  a  little  hope  in 
that,  for  it  meant  that  she  was  a  little  afraid  .  .  . 
unless,  and  he  could  hardly  bear  to  think  of  that, 
unless  he  merely  bored  her  and  she  wanted  gracefully 
to  avoid  argument.  Who  could  tell?  Certainly  she 
had  been  keeping  out  of  his  way  lately.  They  had 
met  at  the  houses  of  mutual  friends,  for  that  could 
not  be  helped,  but  she  had  made  her  excuses.  Yes, 

she  was  keeping  out  of  his  way. 

216 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

It  was  then  that  once  more  a  wild  eighteenth- 
century  idea  began  to  weigh  upon  Britford's  mind. 
It  began  idly.  As  if  playing  with  memories  of  old- 
fashioned  plays,  he  told  himself  that,  after  all, 
people  did  get  kidnaped,  that  they  did  get  shut  up 
in  lonely  castles,  that  they  did  get  compromised.  It 
was  all  very  well  pretending  that  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury was  entirely  dominated  by  good  form  and  muni- 
cipal by-laws;  a  barrister  knew  better.  He  knew 
that  there  was  plenty  of  killing  and  seducing,  that 
the  varieties  of  crime  had  not  been  forgotten  as  the 
years  went  by,  and  indeed  that  many  improved 
methods  had  been  introduced.  At  that  moment  his 
thoughts  were  directed  along  a  double  line.  One 
part  of  his  brain  was  enjoying  scenes  where  Mrs. 
Caldecot  was  decoyed,  bound,  and  gagged;  scenes 
upon  Italian  bridges,  from  which  she  passed  into  a 
cellar  by  the  Arno,  where  awaited  a  friar  with  a 
wedding  ring.  The  other  half  of  Britford's  mind 
remained  calm  and  legal,  begged  him  not  to  be  a 
fool,  and  reminded  him  that  there  could  be  no 
question  of  a  wedding  ring,  since  Mrs.  Caldecot  was 
married.  The  romantic  half  retorted  that  from  its 
point  of  view  that  was  nothing,  added  that  it  would 
find  Caldecot  and  quietly  shoot  him.  The  legal  half 
replied  that  this  was  not  done  by  K.C.'s,  and  the 
confused  argument  continued. 

When  at  last  Britford  returned  to  his  desk,  he, 
however,  indicated  that  he  was  disturbed.  Good 
form  and  legal  habits,  these  could  not  be  set  aside ; 

217 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

he  felt  a  little  ridiculous,  he  knew  quite  well  that 
he  was  not  going  to  abduct  Mrs.  Caldecot,  but 
what  he  did  know,  though  he  did  not  face  it  plainly, 
was  that  out  of  these  ideas,  out  of  his  new  despair 
was  arising,  not  acceptance  of  his  condition,  but  a 
new  determination,  a  novel  capacity  for  violence 
and  deceit.  He  did  not  know  what  he  wanted  to 
do;  he  had  no  plan;  he  had  even  no  intention  of 
making  a  plan.  But  his  thin  mask  looked  harder 
than  ever ;  his  eyes  even  calmer  and  steadier.  It  was 
as  if  the  man's  natural  resolution  was  concentrated 
more  and  more  round  a  single  idea.  Once  he  had 
loved  his  career  and  Mrs.  Caldecot ;  he  had  gone  on 
loving,  caring  for  his  career  more  than  he  did,  and 
for  Mrs.  Caldecot  immeasurably  more.  Then,  by 
imperceptible  degrees,  he  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  success  which  he  had  secured,  but  he  could  not 
grow  accustomed  to  Mrs.  Caldecot  whom  he  did  not 
possess.  Thus  had  she  come  to  dominate  among  his 
desires ;  thus  she  had  grown  into  a  necessity,  become 
exclusive,  begun  to  divert  even  his  concentrated 
thoughts  from  the  work  he  had  to  do,  to  pursue  him 
and  to  trouble  him,  to  throw  him  into  frenzies  of 
irritation,  into  fits  of  injustice.  She  who  had 
occupied  always  the  background  of  his  mind  was 
now  forcing  herself  into  the  foreground,  was  becom- 
ing a  fixed  idea,  an  idea  that  recurred,  that  would 
not  be  driven  away.  He  could  see  the  time  coming 
when  he  would  think  of  nothing  else.  Stephen  Brit- 
ford  did  not  realize  that  he  was  very  near  madness 

218 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

in  the  form  of  monomania.  He  had  always  laughed 
at  the  idea  that  men  went  mad  through  love;  that 
seemed  too  silly  even  to  discuss.  He  did  not  realize 
that  when  a  man  gave  himself  over  to  love  for  a 
woman,  to  politics,  or  stamps,  it  was  all  the  same; 
that  a  single  idea  could  step  out  from  its  modest 
place  on  the  borderland  of  consciousness  and  invade 
it,  first  as  a  transitory  haze,  then  a  steadfast  cloud, 
then  black,  all-enveloping  fog.  Stephen  Britford 
did  not  yet  know  where  his  passion  was  taking  him ; 
he  did  not  realize  that  in  his  extremity  nothing 
would  save  him  if  an  opportunity  came ;  neither  his 
manners  nor  his  habits,  not  the  law  itself,  if  the 
chance  came.  He  would  be  capable  of  all  crime,  of 
all  the  red  outrage,  of  all  the  slimy  tricks  which  for 
half  a  lifetime  had  appeared  before  his  eyes  merely 
as  interesting  cases,  affecting  vague  people,  cases 
that  were  reported  in  the  newspapers  as  true  but 
had  the  quality  of  fiction. 

"Oh,  damn!"  said  Britford  aloud,  "what's  the 
good  ?"  He  rang  his  bell  decisively.  The  clerk  came 
in.  They  discussed  a  case  and  Britford  decided  to 
suggest  a  settlement  out  of  court.  He  thought, 
"Her  ears  curl  back  a  little."  One  might  pull  one 
forward,  just  a  little,  and  lodge  one's  lips  as  in  a 
nest  in  that  perfumed,  rosy  place,  that  was  warm 
and  sheltered. 

Stephen  Britford,  a  year  before,  would  have  been 
incredulous  if  anyone  had  prophesied  to  him  to  what 

extremities  his  passion  would  take  him.     It  was 

219 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

with  a  sort  of  skeptical  self -contempt  that  he  found 
himself  now  rej  oicing  in  traces  of  her  if  he  could  not 
obtain  more,  in  a  few  cool,  affectionate  letters  she 
had  written  him,  accepting  an  invitation,  or  con- 
doling on  a  cold ;  in  a  mediocre  photograph  of  her, 
ten  years  old  and  unequal  to  her  present  beauty. 
This  was  sentimental  and  exquisite,  and  though 
sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  destroy  these  poor 
tokens  of  a  hopeless  desire,  he  could  not.  They  fur- 
nished him  with  a  noxious  self-indulgence;  when  he 
examined  them,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  secrecy,  of 
succumbing  to  a  vice.  He  was  to  sink  further  into 
degradation,  see  his  middle-aged  dignity  rival  the 
follies  of  adolescence.  All  that  was  hers  being  in- 
vested with  charm,  he  found  himself  once  or  twice 
going  out  of  his  way  to  pass  her  house,  to  look  up 
and  notice  that  the  geraniums  and  marguerites  were 
wilting  in  the  heat,  to  glance  quickly  down  her  area 
and  see  her  servants  having  tea.  All  the  feeble 
satisfactions  of  the  aspiring  lover  were  his  at  fifty. 
He  did  not  know  how  pitiful  he  was. 

One  night,  at  the  end  of  July,  he  had  dined  quite 
close,  in  Lowndes  Square.  It  had  been  dull,  dull; 
he  suspected  that  already  the  wine  was  disagreeing 
with  him.  Having  left  at  eleven  o'clock,  he  pictured 
himself  returning  to  his  lonely  rooms ;  a  depression 
rose  swiftly  in  him,  enveloping  him  entirely.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  in  the  square.  He  wanted  to  be 
strong  and  free,  but  he  felt  so  alone  and  so  sud- 
denly old,  so  dependent,  so  much  in  need  of  a  word, 
.  220 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

the  touch  that  comforts,  that  in  spite  of  the  hour 
he  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Caldecot  would  be  in. 
Just  to  see  her  for  a  moment,  to  hold  her  hand,  and 
say  good-bye,  to  go  away  again,  despairing  and 
hopeful,  but  somehow  invigorated.  He  thought: 
"It's  eleven  o'clock.  Don't  be  absurd.  She'll  be 
out,  or  in  bed."  Also  he  despised  himself  as  he 
decided  that  he'd  go  straight  to  Hyde  Park  Cor- 
ner and  find  a  taxi  .  .  .  then  turned  north.  After 
all,  it  wasn't  much  out  of  his  way.  He  went  up 
Seville  Street  on  the  side  of  the  road  opposite  Mrs. 
Caldecot's  house.  He  walked  fast,  as  if  convincing 
himself  that  this  was  really  a  short  cut.  Of  course, 
he  couldn't  do  anything.  He'd  just  go  past  and 
look  up  at  her  window  without  stopping.  But  as 
he  reached  the  frontage  he  knew  so  well,  he  walked 
slower.  He  stopped.  Now  indeed  the  temptation 
was  terrible,  for  lights  shone  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  one  of  the  windows  was  open.  The  fact  that 
it  was  open  made  it  worse.  She  was  so  near,  so 
near  that  if  he  went  up  to  the  area  railings  and 
called  to  her  she  would  hear  him.  He  wanted  very 
badly  to  do  that,  but  the  remains  of  his  pride  for- 
bade that  within  a  few  steps  of  Knightsbride  he 
should  play  Romeo.  All  the  same  he  did  not  go 
away ;  he  was  drawn  and  repulsed,  and  the  two  im- 
pulses kept  him  fastened  there,  unable  to  take, 
unable  to  forsake.  Stephen  Britford  stood  before 
the  house,  for  a  long  time,  taking  no  notice  of  the 

few  passers-by.     Those  lights  fascinated  him  as 

221 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

surely  as  they  might  have  a  moth.  He  could  not 
leave  them,  but,  less  fortunate  than  the  moth,  he 
could  not  hope  to  be  burned  up  in  their  flame. 

If  Stephen  Britford  had  arrived  two  or  three 
minutes  earlier,  he  would  have  concluded  that  Mrs. 
Caldecot  was  giving  a  small  party,  for  he  would 
see  the  slight  figure  of  a  girl  in  a  velvet  cloak  leap 
into  her  waiting  taxi  and  drive  away.  But  he  had 
not  come  to  this  conclusion,  when  suddenly  the  door 
opened  to  let  out  a  man  in  evening  clothes.  Almost 
simultaneously  the  lights  in  the  drawing-room  went 
out.  This  coincidence  had  upon  Britford  a  shat- 
tering effect.  She'd  been  receiving  a  man  alone! 
One  glance  at  the  silhouette  had  already  told  him 
that  it  was  not  Rodbourne,  not  the  lover  returned, 
nor  the  fiancee  already  on  the  sly  betraying  his 
future  wife  with  an  older  love.  The  man  was  three 
or  four  inches  shorter  than  Rodbourne,  and  for  a 
moment  Britford  watched  him  go  up  Seville  Street, 
swagging  a  little.  Suddenly  he  found  himself  walk- 
ing in  the  same  direction.  Jealousy  was  upon  him. 
He  had  suffered  greatly  by  Mrs.  Caldecot,  stood 
her  marriage,  stood  her  self-abandonment  to  another 
man ;  now  she  was  free  while  he  pursued  her,  and  it 
seemed  that  she  preferred  another  man !  This  com- 
pletely drove  out  of  Britford  his  legal  prudences. 
He  was  going  to  know  who  that  man  was,  and  so 
he  followed  him. 

Together  they  turned  westward,  and  Britford 
gained  on  him  a  little  as  they  passed  the  Hyde  Park 

222 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

Hotel.  A  little  further  on  the  man  stopped  and 
looked  about  the  street,  obviously  waiting  for  a 
taxi.  Britford  hurriedly  concealed  himself  in  the 
doorway  of  a  tobacconist.  He  guessed  from  a  move- 
ment that  the  man  thought  of  going  back  to  the 
cab  rank  opposite  the  hotel,  then  that  he  decided 
not  to  bother.  But  all  the  taxis  were  at  this  time 
coming  back  from  the  theaters,  and  not  one  was 
going  east.  So  the  man  at  last  went  on  toward  the 
west,  while  Britford  resumed  his  pursuit.  It  was 
.then  that  he  became  crafty.  He  realized  that  he 
would  create  suspicion  if  he  practically  accosted 
the  man,  if  he  knew  him.  So  he  crossed  the  road, 
and,  very  hot,  began  to  walk  fast  enough  to  out- 
strip the  man;  it  took  him  some  time  to  do  so 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  cross  the  road  in  a  dark 
place,  and  to  manage  his  movements  so  as  to  reach 
the  pavement  just  as  the  man  passed  a  lamp-post. 
As  he  saw  him  for  a  second,  Britford  hesitated  and 
it  was  an  effort  to  walk  on.  He  wanted  to  think 
there  was  a  mistake,  but  that  was  impossible. 
Geoffrey  Caldecot!  Much  older,  smart,  but  too 
smart.  Why?  Then  a  new  coolness  came  to  Brit- 
ford. He  must  see  the  end  of  this.  He  knew  that 
Caldecot  had  not  noticed  him,  for  he  had  not  met 
his  eyes.  With  simple  craft  Britford  bent  down  to 
retie  his  shoelace,  while  Caldecot  passed  him.  Very 
soon  Britford  was  able  to  follow  him.  Caldecot 
did  not  turn  round ;  in  a  few  minutes  Britford  saw 
him  enter  a  small  hotel  near  Kensington  Gore. 

223 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Britford  slept  hardly  at  all  that  night.  Now  he 
suffered  less  from  jealousy  than  from  complete 
bewilderment.  He  had  to  believe  that  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  was  seeing  her  husband  for  reasons  of  her  own, 
which  she  had  kept  from  him.  She'd  been  deceiving 
him,  then.  But  why  should  he  come?  This  man, 
forgotten  in  London  for  the  last  thirteen  years. 
"Perhaps,"  thought  Britford,  with  sudden  savagery, 
"perhaps  he  hasn't  been  as  forgotten  as  people 
think ;  perhaps  he's  been  there  all  the  time."  Per- 
haps Claire  has  deceived  not  only  me,  but  Rod- 
bourne,  treating  her  husband  as  a  lover."  He  did 
not  find  this  idea  burlesque,  for  he  was  at  a  point 
where  everything  seemed  possible.  He  had,  during 
his  career,  sat  so  often  in  court  while  the  most 
extraordinary  results  of  human  passions  were 
exhibited,  that  he  could  believe  anything.  Now  that 
he  was  running  into  the  incredible,  an  idea  such  as 
this  ceased  to  be  incredible,  but  became  actual,  pos- 
sible, probable.  He  fell  asleep  at  last,  out  of  exhaus- 
tion, but  early  next  morning  he  felt  that  he  could 
not  go  to  his  chambers  in  this  state  of  disturbance 
and  anxiety.  So  he  called  on  Mrs.  Caldecot.  She 
seemed  surprised,  but  quite  calm.  He  made  weak 
excuses  about  not  being  able  to  get  hold  of 
her  in  those  days  unless  he  came  with  the  milk. 
She  laughed,  and  he  hated  her  for  laughing,  this 
woman  who  was  concealing  something  from  him 
and,  worse  still,  something  which  she  had  to  hide,  to 
conceal,  because  she  did  not  love  him. 

224 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

He  obtained  nothing  from  her,  and  at  last  went 
away  to  submit  the  problem  to  hypothesis.  He  did 
not  progress  very  far,  for  he  could  see  no  precise 
reason  for  Caldecot's  return.  They  couldn't  be 
reconciled  or  Caldecot  wouldn't  have  gone  away. 
Anyhow,  if  there  had  been  a  reconciliation,  Mrs. 
Caldecot  was  an  old  friend  enough  to  tell  him  some- 
thing about  it.  No,  it  couldn't  be  that.  Then  what 
could  it  be?  For  one  moment  Britford  made  the 
correct  supposition;  he  said  to  himself,  **I  wonder 
if  he's  blackmailing  her?"  Then  he  rejected  this  as 
absurd,  because  the  things  that  happen  always  seem 
incredible  until  they  do  happen.  Still,  there  must 
have  been  a  reason.  Perhaps  Caldecot  had  some 
financial  matter  to  discuss.  After  all,  he  was  still 
her  husband  with  an  interest  in  her  property.  But 
that  did  not  explain  Mrs.  Caldecot's  silence.  Surely 
Geoffrey's  visit  must  have  disturbed  her ;  surely  she 
did  not  think  that  she  could  deal  alone  with  such 
a  man.  She  would  naturally  have  needed  a  solicitor  or 
a  barrister,  and  in  so  delicate  a  matter,  she  would 
choose  him,  a  friend  of  twenty  years'  standing.  It 
was  this  that  increased  Britf ord's  suspicions :  if  she 
did  not  tell  him,  it  was  because  she  had  something  to 
conceal  from  him.  And  what  could  she  conceal  but 
the  new  illegitimacy  of  a  legitimate  affection? 

That  idea  came  to  him  only  two  days  later,  came 
to  him  clearly,  that  is,  for  he  had  been  suspicious 
of  it  almost  at  once ;  after  enraging  him  into  doubt 

it  suddenly  subjected  him.     He  passed  the  day  in 

225 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

complete  misery.  He  had  been  beaten  so  often  by 
other  men  in  this  dearest  contest.  Now  indeed  he 
felt  his  age,  and  the  greater  emptiness  of  the  many 
years  which  his  vigorous  body  would  compel  him  to 
survive.  He  left  his  chambers  at  about  three  o'clock, 
walked  about  aimlessly  among  the  crowds  in  the 
Strand,  and  later,  his  eyes  upon  the  ground,  passed 
by  the  linked  couples  on  the  Embankment.  At  nine 
o'clock,  having  had  no  dinner,  he  went  to  bed  and 
slept  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  until  eight  next  morn- 
ing. As  he  woke  up,  he  realized  a  change  in  himself. 
He  felt  cool  and  strong.  Now  indeed  he  reacted 
from  the  feebleness  of  the  day  before.  He  got  up, 
stung  himself  into  activity  with  a  cold  bath.  Over 
a  cigar  after  breakfast  he  saw  himself  as  a  new  man, 
a  purposeful,  desperate  man.  He  didn't  care  what 
sort  of  a  woman  she  was ;  he  wanted  her,  and  noth- 
ing should  stop  him,  whatever  it  was.  The  law? 
Damn  the  law !  He  was  seized  by  a  sort  of  frenzy, 
as  if  those  long  years  of  conformity  to  convention, 
of  respect  for  statutes  were  producing  in  him  the 
revolt,  the  reaction  which  leads  the  balked  adven- 
turer to  crime.  He  did  not  think  himself  absurd 
now  as  he  developed  a  cool  and  perfect  scheme. 
The  game  was  so  serious  that  he  could  not  see  its 
humor.  So,  after  a  while,  he  sent  for  a  taxi,  which 
took  him  to  Caldecot's  hotel.  A  few  minutes  later 
he  came  down  the  steps,  aimless  and  defeated :  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Caldecot,  the  reception  office  said,  had 

left  two  hours  before. 

226 


THE  MIND  OF  STEPHEN  BRITFORD 

Stephen  Britford  went  to  Scotland  a  fortnight 
later;  he  fished  a  great  deal;  and  conversed  with 
perfect  common  sense  on  butcher  blue  or  whatever 
might  be  the  fly  of  the  day ;  he  appeared  at  Ballater 
with  a  motor  car,  where  people  sat  gladly  and  found 
him  good  company.  But,  wherever  he  went  almost 
every  day  there  came  for  him  a  plain  envelope  con- 
taining a  blue  form.  For  two  months  the  form 
stated  that  there  was  nothing  to  report,  except  now 
and  then  that  Mr.  So  and  So,  or  Miss  So  and  So, 
associates  of  Caldecot,  had  been  seen;  the  agency 
could  not  discover  the  whereabouts  of  Mr.  Caldecot. 
From  time  to  time  Britford  wrote  a  check.  He  did 
not  now  despair  of  finding  his  indispensable  accom- 
plice. The  months  might  pass,  but  the  agency  would 
find  Caldecot  in  the  end.  His  associates  were  well 
known ;  some  smart  confidence  trickster,  some  booky 
or  keep  would  yet  establish  a  link.  So  Britford  was 
not  surprised  when,  a  week  after  his  return  to  town, 
the  agency  informed  him  that  Mr.  Caldecot  had 
returned  to  London  and  was  staying  at  a  small  hotel 
near  Sloane  Square.  The  agency  presumed  that  Mr. 
Britford  would  be  interested  to  know  that  Mr. 
Caldecot's  present  female  companion  did  not  corre- 
spond with  the  description  obtained  from  the  hotel 
in  Kensington.  They  could  assure  Mr.  Britford 
that  this  lady  was  not  the  one  who  had  accompanied 
Mr.  Caldecot  in  July.  That  did  not  interest  Brit- 
ford at  all.  He  brushed  his  hat  carefully,  and  in 

a  few  minutes  was  waiting  in  a  nasty  little  smoking 

227 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

room,  fitted  with  bamboo  chairs.  He  had  thought 
well  not  to  give  his  name ;  instead  he  stated  himself 
as  the  representative  of  a  well-known  firm  of  adver- 
tising bookmakers. 

"Gosh !"  said  Caldecot.  "Well,  Britford,  you're 
the  last  man  I  should  have  thought  would  have  gone 
in  for  turf  accountancy." 

Britford  .stared  at  him  for  a  moment :  Yes,  Cal- 
decot was  getting  old,  and  yet  he  was  only  two 
years  his  junior.  Getting  very  gray;  and  those 
pouches  under  the  eyes,  that  was  drink.  Cuffs 
pretty  frayed  too.  He'd  be  easy  to  manage. 

"Want  to  open  an  account  for  me?"  asked  Cal- 
decot, j  auntily.  "I've  never  dealt  with  your  people." 

"Don't  bother  about  that,  Caldecot,"  said 
Stephen.  "That's  only  a  blind.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

Caldecot  listened  to  the  end.  He  was  very  sur- 
prised. Oh,  not  surprised  in  general,  of  course; 
things  would  have  to  go  pink  before  he  was  really  sur- 
prised, but  he  wouldn't  have  expected  it  of  Britford. 

"Damn  the  surprise!"  said  Britford,  "will  you 
doit?" 

Caldecot  hesitated  for  a  moment.  A  vague  idea 
of  fair  play  struggled  in  his  mind.  It  was  less  than 
three  months  since  he  got  two  thousand  quid  off 
her,  and  now  .  .  .  Besides,  it  wasn't  quite  playing 
the  game.  Still,  he  was  very  hard  up. 

"Done,"  he  said,  suddenly.     "Come  on,  let's  go 

round  the  corner  and  have  a  drink  on  it." 

228 


CHAPTER  XII 

INQUEST  OF   A  RAKE 

"VTTTHEN  Britford  had  gone,  Caldecot  stayed 
Y  Y  for  some  time  in  the  ugly  little  smoking 
room,  contemplating  the  hearth  that  was  now  filled 
in  with  an  enormous  piece  of  crinkled  paper,  pleated 
as  a  concertina.  Vaguely  it  offended  him.  He  did 
not  like  this  unfashionable  little  hotel,  which  gave 
itself  away  by  not  having  a  fire  laid  in  July.  He 
looked  about  him  at  the  rotten  little  chairs.  This 
place  wanted  a  few  saddlebacks.  What  a  place! 
and  the  pictures !  wouldn't  he  ever  get  away  from 
Cecil  Aldins?  Call  this  a  smoking  room?  More 
like  a  bar  parlor.  Wanted  only  some  distiller's 
ash  trays  to  complete  the  effect.  Then  he  smiled: 
anyhow  this  wouldn't  last  long,  and  a  glow  filled 
his  body  as  he  reflected  with  satisfaction  upon  the 
coming  opportunity.  Easy  enough.  And  Britford 
thought  he  was  going  to  get  out  of  it  for  five 
thousand  quid.  The  poor  sap!  When  he'd  got 
him  it'd  be  ten  thousand.  He  could  pay  all  right. 
Caldecot  laughed  aloud.  Once  more  surveying  his 
surroundings  with  an  air  of  contempt,  he  went 
upstairs. 

229 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Still  chewing  his  cigar,  he  went  through  his  dress- 
ing room,  and  without  knocking  entered  the  bed- 
room, where  Vera  lay  drowsily  in  bed.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  at  her.  No  mistake  about  it, 
she  was  a  damn  fine  girl,  and,  no  doubt  because  he 
was  pleased  with  himself,  he  liked  her  more  than 
ever  this  morning.  She  lay  upon  her  back,  hands 
folded  behind  a  round  head,  from  which  bobbed 
bright-red  hair  stood  out  like  a  savage  halo.  Her 
gray-green  eyes  were  half-closed;  she  had  a  short, 
rosy  nose  with  greedy  nostrils ;  a  thick,  red  mouth 
even  at  that  hour  was  abundantly  salved.  She 
looked  gross,  but  attractive  by  the  force  of  her 
youth,  her  whiteness,  her  healthiness.  Slightly 
imprisoned  within  a  nightgown  of  black  crepe  de 
Chine,  she  looked  like  a  great  white  magnolia. 
"Yes,"  thought  Caldecot,  "she's  a  damn  fine  girl." 
It  did  not  displease  him  that  she  neither  spoke  nor 
looked  at  him.  She  always  was  agreeably  slow,  and 
good-tempered  in  a  sulky  way,  or  sulky  in  a  good- 
tempered  way,  how  was  a  fellow  to  know?  And  he 
liked  her  abandoned  pose  as  she  there  lay,  one  elbow 
on  a  crumpled  Daily  Mirror,  having  scattered  the 
orange  sheets  of  The  Winning  Post.  These  were 
tumbled  over  the  bed,  one  in  the  middle  of  the 
remains  of  an  omelet  on  her  breakfast  tray,  which 
she  obviously  had  been  too  slack  to  remove  from 
the  bed.  All  this  animal  untidiness  somehow  suited 
her;  she  did  not  make  a  picture  of  grace,  the  sort 

of  picture  that  makes  a  man  half-ashamedly  rever- 

230 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

ential,  but  she  exhibited  the  solid  world,  the  power 
of  life,  life  of  earth,  heavily  perfumed,  soil  after 
shower,  smell  of  resin,  of  bursting  bud,  ammoniacal 
stable.  Here  no  prayerful  violet,  but  fat  waterlily, 
strong-rooted,  and  drawing  a  thick  green  stem 
through  dark  water  out  of  sullen  mud. 

After  a  moment,  Caldecot  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  upon  the  Belgianan  prospect  of  re- 
spectability fallen  among  boarding  houses.  There 
wouldn't  be  much  more  of  that.  In  an  amiable  tone 
he  said  over  his  shoulder:  "It's  getting  overcast, 
Vee.  Going  to  rain."  There  was  no  reply,  so  after 
a  moment  he  turned  and  repeated,  "It's  going  to 
rain,  do  you  hear?" 

"I  don't  care  if  it  blows  ink?"  said  Vera. 

Caldecot  came  a  little  nearer:  "Well,  you  seem 
in  a  contented  frame  of  mind.  Had  a  good  break- 
fast? Pound  of  steak  and  pint  of  bitter  as  usual?" 

Vera  opened  her  gray-green  eyes  and  gave  him  a 
glance  which  would  have  puzzled  him  if  he  had  not 
found  out  in  the  last  two  months  that  Vera's  glances 
seldom  meant  anything  in  particular.  So  he  did 
not  pursue  the  subject;  happening  to  look  at  his 
sleeve,  where  the  blue  serge  was  shining,  he  re- 
marked :  "I  shall  have  to  get  a  new  suit.  I'm  sick 
of  blue.  What  do  you  think,  Vee  ?  I  suppose  that 
as  usual  you  don't  think?  Thinking  never  was  your 
metier,  was  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  mattier,"  said 

Vera.     Then  she  yawned,  with  an  air  of  having 
16  231 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

spoken  only  because  it  was  genteel  to  answer  when 
you  were  talked  to. 

"Well,  you'd  better  learn  a  bit  of  French  while 
you  can,"  he  said,  smiling,  "because  I'm  going  to 
take  you  over  to  Paris  in  about  a  fortnight." 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  The  racing  isn't  up  to  much  over 
there,  but  I'm  rather  interested  in  one  or  two  of 
their  steeplechase  meetings.  I've  got  a  tip  .  .  . 
well,  hardly  a  tip,  but  hints  are  good  enough  con- 
sidering whom  it  comes  from,  so  we're  going  to  put 
your  nightie  on  Scatterdust  for  the  Prix  de  la 
Bodiniere." 

This  time  Vera  did  not  reply,  but  stretched  her- 
self, bent  her  body  like  an  arc,  like  a  sleepy  little 
cat  that's  had  enough  milk. 

"Yes,"  said  Caldecot,  musing,  "I've  only  been 
three  months  in  this  damn  country  in  the  last  dozen 
years,  and  I'm  fed  with  it.  Aren't  you?" 

"Well,  there's  pros  and  cons,"  said  Vera,  think- 
ing of  something  else. 

"Especially  cons.  Too  slow  for  me.  England's 
a  one-horse  show.  We  might  stay  a  bit  in  Paris 
before  going  on  to  the  Riviera.  You'll  like  it.  Never 
been  to  Paris,  have  you?" 

"No." 

"Paris  was  made  for  you.  Might  get  you  some 
frocks  there.  Sort  of  frocks  that  set  off  your 
beauty.  All  beauty  and  no  frock.  Only  wait  until 

I  pull  off  a  bit  of  business  next  week,  and  then  .  .  ." 

232 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

He  resisted  an  impulse  to  say  too  much  and  ended 
up  vaguely,  "Then  we'll  be  up  in  the  flies." 

For  the  first  time  Vera  looked  at  him  with  an 
air  of  interest.  This  sort  of  hint  she  always  under- 
stood. "What's  happened ?  Been  profiteering?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  care.    I  don't  care  if  it  blows  ink." 

"Meanwhile,"  went  on  Caldecot,  extending  his 
program,  "we  might  go  and  see  that  new  thing 
at  the  Mercury  Theater,  what's  it  called?  oh,  yes, 
'The  Pink  Brassiere.'  When  you  feel  ready  to  stir 
your  vast  bulk,  Vee,  you  might  go  round  and  get 
hold  of  a  couple  of  dress  circles,  no  ...  a  couple 
of  stalls." 

At  that  moment  Vera  stretched  once  more  and 
deliberately  sat  up  in  bed.  Her  plump  face  set  into 
almost  rigid  lines  as  she  decided  to  make  an  an- 
nouncement. "Sorry  to  disappoint  you,  old  dear," 
she  said,  "but  I  can't  do  it." 

"Why  not  ?  Got  a  previous  engagement  ?  If  it's 
Schornstein  again,  I  won't  have  it.  If  that  fellow 
means  to  give  you  an  engagement,  he's  got  to  come 
through  now.  But  I  know  those  movie  men,  and 
so  ought  you  by  now.  Good  heavens !  this'll  be  the 
third  time  in  a  fortnight  that  Schornstein  will  have 
taken  you  out  and  .  .  ." 

"It  isn't  Schornstein." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Caldecot,  "that 
you've  got  the  cheek  to  tell  me  you're  dining  with 
a  man?" 

233 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"You  know,"  said  Vera  contemplatively,  "you  do 
take  the  blooming  Huntley  and  Palmer,  going  off 
like  a  bottle  of  soda  water.  Who  said  I  was  dining 
with  a  man?  And,  besides,  what  if  I  was?  You've 
got  no  right  over  me.  We  aren't  married.  Nor 
likely  to  be." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  He  would  cer- 
tainly not  have  married  Vera  if  he  had  been  free, 
but  the  suggestion  that  she  might  not  care  to  marry 
him  annoyed  him. 

"What  I  say,"  said  Vera. 

"Don't  say  that,"  said  Caldecot,  "you  know  I 
don't  like  it." 

"I  don't  care.    I  don't  care  if  it  blows  ink." 

"And  damnation,  don't  say  that.  Can't  you 
think  of  something  new  ?" 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Vera,  suddenly  angry.  "Yes, 
I  have  thought  of  something  new.  Get  out,  I  want 
to  dress." 

"Something  new?"  repeated  Caldecot.  "How? 
Something  new  ?" 

"Well,  I  suppose,  I  got  to  break  it  to  you.  Sorry 
to  hurt  your  feelings,  Geoffrey,  but  our  dream  of 
love  is  over." 

"This  is  very  sudden,"  said  Caldecot,  but  there 
was  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  which  contrasted  with 
the  sneer. 

"Yes,"  said  Vera  meditatively,  "it  was  very  sud- 
den. But  it's  lovely.  Geoffrey,  I'm  in  love." 

"Oh,  I  thought  I  was  the  object  of  .  .  ." 
234 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

al  never  said  you  weren't,  but  I  never  said  you 
were.  Oh,  I  got  nothing  against  you,  but  I'm  in 

love: 

"It's  divine,  it's  sublime, 
It's  lovely  to  be  in  love." 

For  a  moment  Caldecot  stared  at  her.  He  did  not 
yet  take  her  quite  seriously,  but  it  occurred  to  him 
that  Vera  wouldn't  have  invented  this  sort  of  thing. 
She  wasn't  up  to  it.  So,  rather  roughly,  he  replied : 
"What's  all  this  bunkum  you're  talking?" 

"It  isn't  bunkum,"  said  Vera,  in  a  dignified  tone. 
"I've  got  a  new  boy,  and  if  only  you'll  get  out  and 
I  can  dress,  I'll  pack.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that. 
It's  love.  It  can't  be  helped." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand?  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  if  you  want  to  have  a  row,  wait  till  the 
sun  shines." 

"I  don't  want  to  have  a  row,"  growled  Caldecot. 
"But  I'm  not  going  to  take  this  sort  of  sauce  from 
you." 

"You'll  have  to,  old  dear,"  said  Vera,  defiantly. 
"You  can't  stop  me." 

"And  may  I  ask  who  is  the  man?" 

"Oh,  you  can  ask  all  right.  And  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you.  He's  lovely.  Six  foot,  with  black  hair  and 
blue  eyes.  He's  just  taken  his  degree  at  Oxford." 

"And  you  met  this  young  gentleman  at  Oxford  ?" 

"No,  I  met  him  in  the  bus.    Oh,  he's  lovely." 

For  a  moment  Caldecot  did  not  reply.     He  had 

not  the  slightest  feeling  for  Vera,  but  she  certainly 

235 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

was  as  handsome  a  girl  as  he'd  come  across  for  a 
good  many  years;  also,  she  was  placid  and  suited 
him;  she  was  not  too  mercenary,  which  in  view  of 
his  decreasing  banking  account,  had,  for  the  last 
two  months,  been  rather  pleasant.  But  jealousy 
arose  in  him  when  he  thought  of  the  young  man; 
it  was  the  war  of  generations.  He  was  so  angry 
that  he  felt  inclined  to  hit  her,  but  civilization  was 
too  strong  for  him.  Indeed,  he  was  so  conscious 
that  it  would  be  inconvenient  to  let  Vera  go  just  now 
that  he  managed  to  affect  coolness. 

"Look  here,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "you  must  be 
dizzy.  I'm  not  trying  the  romantic  stunt,  but  you 
and  I  have  rubbed  along  all  right,  haven't  we  ?" 

"Oh,  I  got  nothing  against  you." 

"Well  then,  what's  caught?  Haven't  I  been 
decent  to  you?  Haven't  you  been  looked  after? 
And  haven't  I  just  told  you  that  we're  going  to 
Paris  and  on  to  the  Riviera,  and  that  you'll  have  all 
the  frocks  you  want?" 

"Yes,"  said  Vera,  sighing,  "it  would  be  lovely. 
And  Jack  hasn't  got  any  money  at  all  except  what 
he  can  get  out  of  his  father." 

"Then,  don't  be  an  idiot." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Geoffrey,  it's  love." 

Caldecot  went  up  to  her,  and,  seizing  the  plump 
arm,  shook  it  slightly.  "Look  here,  I  don't  believe 
you  know  what  sort  of  a  man  I  am.  Don't  you 
think  I'm  going  to  be  played  with.  If  I  have  any 

more  of  this  I'll  .  .  .  I'll  wring  your  neck." 

236 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

"No  you  won't,  Geoffrey.  Besides,  what'll  be  the 
good  of  that?" 

"It  would  stop  you  making  a  fool  of  yourself. 
And  of  me.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  man  to  have  you 
lying  there  talking  about  some  blighter  you  picked 
up  on  the  bus." 

"You'll  have  to  lump  it,  I'm  afraid,  Geoffrey. 
Oh,  I  know  you  can  make  a  row,  but  you  can't  lock 
me  up,  and  as  soon  as  you're  out  of  the  way,  I'm 
going  to  hop  it." 

He  was  still  holding  the  plump  arm ;  at  the  con- 
tact of  the  smooth  skin,  seeing  so  close  the  thick, 
unsmiling  mouth,  his  rage  took  another  turn.  He 
wasn't  going  to  let  a  girl  like  that  go.  Suddenly 
throwing  both  arms  about  her  he  drew  her  close, 
and  while  she  averted  her  head,  pressed  violent  kisses 
upon  her  neck  and  shoulders.  She  did  not  struggle, 
but  lay  warm  and  limp  in  his  arms,  so  that  at  last, 
with  exultation,  he  told  himself  that  he  was  winning 
her  back.  He  lifted  up  her  averted  head  to  kiss 
the  firm  cheeks,  and  then  her  lips,  angrily  rather 
than  desirously,  as  if  to  affirm  his  recovered  rights. 
Though  she  did  not  return  his  caresses  she  did  not 
resist  them,  and  so  at  last  he  let  her  go,  except  that 
about  her  shoulders  he  kept  one  arm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "you  silly  kid.  You 
know  you're  a  silly  kid,  don't  you?  It's  all  right 
between  you  and  me." 

"When  you've  done  mauling  me  about,"  saicl  Vera, 
looking  at  the  ceiling,  "I'll  go  and  wash  my  face." 

237 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Vera  !"  cried  Caldecot,  and  the  anger  in  his  voice 
was  now  replaced  by  self-commiseration.  "Don't 
say  that  sort  of  thing.  You  used  to  like  it  when  I 
kissed  you." 

"Suppose  I  did?  I've  changed  my  mind.  I've 
nothing  against  you,  Geoffrey.  Only  I've  changed 
my  mind." 

"But  what  have  I  done?" 

"You  haven't  done  anything."  She  hesitated. 
"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  I'm  afraid  you're  a  bit 
too  ripe  for  me.  Getting  sleepy  in  fact." 

"You  mean?  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  want  to  throw  it  up  at  you,  Geoffrey, 
but  I'm  twenty  and  you're  .  .  ,n 

"I'm  .  .  .  well  never  mind.  Anyhow,  I'm  not 
old.  Not  for  men." 

Vera  smiled  with  an  air  of  idiotic  rapture.  "I 
don't  say  you're  old,  but  you're  more  than  twice 
my  age.  My  boy's  twenty-three." 

"But  look  here  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  don't  let's  argue  any  more,  Geoffrey.  We've 
been  good  pals;  but  you've  been  sowing  'em  for  a 
long  time.  Why  don't  you  go  and  lead  a  virtuous 
life?" 

"Vera,"  murmured  Caldecot,  now  in  an  imploring 
tone,  for  the  consciousness  of  age  was  oppressive; 
as  he  held  this  radiant  young  creature  he  had  to 
look  away  from  his  blue-veined  hand  which  lay  upon 
the  firm  shoulder,  smoother  than  satin,  "don't  say 

those  things.    I  know  I've  been  pretty  racketty,  but 

233 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

if  youll  stick  to  me,  I'll  run  straight.  Don't  give 
me  the  chuck.  If  you  do,  I'll  go  to  the  dogs." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,  Geoffrey.  I  don't  want  to  be 
hard  on  you,  but  you  got  there  long  ago.  Now 
then,  paws  off,  I've  got  to  get  up." 

"Please  Vera  .  .  ." 

"Now  don't  let's  have  it  all  over  again." 

<fListen,"  said  Caldecot,  throwing  away  prudence, 
"Fve  got  something  to  tell  you.  I  told  you  we'd 
be  up  in  the  flies  by  and  bye.  Well,  we  shall.  Within 
three  months  I'm  going  to  make  five  thousand  quid 
certain  and  perhaps  ten.  What  about  that  ?" 

"Tell  me  another." 

"It's  quite  true.  If  you  stick  to  me,  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it." 

"Oh"  said  Vera.  For  one  moment  she  hesitated, 
for  she  did  want  to  know. 

"Ten  thousand  quid,"  repeated  Caldecot  in  a  low 
tone,  as  Mephistopheles  might  have  whispered  to 
Faust. 

"It's  a  lot  of  money,"  said  Vera,  respectfully. 
Suddenly  her  mood  reasserted  itself,  and  she  threw 
off  Caldecot's  arm.  "No,  I  don't  care  if  it's  a 
hundred  thousand.  You  think  it's  only  money  I 
care  for.  Well,  you're  wrong.  I  got  a  heart,  I 
have.  And  I  wouldn't  give  up  my  boy,  no,  not  to  be 
Queen  of  England." 

Caldecot  drew  away  toward  the  window.  He 
could  have  raged,  threatened,  and  schemed,  if  only 

she  had  not  brought  up  before  him  this  phantom  of 

239 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

old  age,  which  so  long  had  pursued  him  and  now  was 
quite  near.  He  had  not  the  strength  to  recapture 
her,  but  only  the  capacity  to  implore.  "Vee,"  he 
murmured,  "don't  be  rotten  to  me." 

"Oh,  you  bung  off." 

Caldecot  walked  slowly  up  Sloane  Street,  head 
bent,  as  if  without  purpose.  Then  the  church  clock 
near  by  struck  twelve ;  as  he  registered  the  fact  he 
stopped,  as  if  any  outside  impression  sufficed  to 
give  direction  to  his  vague  thoughts.  He  stood  so 
for  a  moment,  looking  down  at  his  admirably  pol- 
ished boots,  at  his  gray  cloth  spats  so  exactly  fitting 
over  the  instep,  at  the  lines  of  his  well-pressed 
trousers.  He  seemed  too  smart  to  be  so  abstracted. 
The  way  his  coat  molded  his  rather  bent  shoulders, 
the  angle  of  his  Homburg  set  slightly  toward  the 
right  ear,  the  clean  washleather  gloves  and  malacca 
cane,  all  this  jaunty  modishness  made  a  contrast 
with  the  pose  of  weariness  and  abandonment.  After 
a  moment  he  looked  up:  "Twelve  o'clock.  Gosh! 
what  a  morning!" 

He  had  not  left  the  hotel  when  Vera  told  him  to 
"bung  off."  Indeed,  the  scene  had  continued  for 
another  hour,  on  varying  rhythms.  There  had 
been  moments  when  he  threatened  her,  and  when  she 
defied  him,  replying  that  she  wasn't  a  white  slave; 
crafty  moments  during  which  he  tried  to  bribe  her, 
to  which  she  replied  that  love  was  enough,  and  that 
even  if  her  boy  hadn't  any  money,  expense  was  no 
consideration;  there  had  even  been  an  unguarded 

240 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

moment  when  he  half-confessed  to  her  the  method 
by  which  he  was  to  obtain  the  large  sum,  tried  to 
tempt  her  with  clothes,  diamonds.  And  now  and 
then  there  had  been  awful  attempts  to  appeal  to  her 
pity,  to  evoke  his  loneliness.  He  had  been  ignoble, 
he  who  all  his  life  had  played  with  women,  toyed  with 
and  discarded  them,  hurt  them  by  carelessness,  and 
hurt  them  for  fun.  All  that  because  she'd  called 
him  old.  Old !  Of  course,  one  had  to  get  old,  but 
only  later.  One  was  always  going  to  get  old,  and 
one  never  did.  One  never  knew  it.  It  was  hell  when 
one  knew  it. 

So  Geoffrey  Caldecot  stared  toward  a  shop 
window  and  asked  himself  if  really  he  were  old.  Old 
enough  to  die.  Well,  that  didn't  worry  him.  He'd 
seen  several  people  die,  and  they'd  all  gone  quite 
easily,  without  knowing.  It  wasn't  that.  What 
troubled  him  was  the  long  stretch  between  youth 
and  age,  getting  ugly,  getting  weak,  getting  dull. 
Think  of  it!  To  become  a  buffer!  He  revolted 
against  the  word.  Buffer!  Not  he:  he'd  be  the 
galloping  major  to  the  end.  But  the  silent  voice 
within  him  replied:  "You  aren't  galloping  as  you 
used  to,  my  poor  old  major.  You  went  the  pace  too 
fast,  I  suppose.  Soon  you'll  be  glad  if  you  can 
canter." 

Then  he  noticed  that  by  the  side  of  the  shop 
window  stood  a  tall  mirror.  It  drew  him  abomi- 
nably. He  wanted  to  test  himself,  and  he  was  afraid 

of  the  thing.    He  wanted  to  look  away,  but  turned 

241 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

to  it  all  the  same.  Yes,  there  was  no  mistake  about 
it.  He  was  getting  long  in  the  tooth.  Not  much 
meat  on  that  chin.  Getting  chinny.  Almost  as  bad 
for  a  man  as  for  a  woman.  Also,  he  had  to  notice 
a  faint  yellow  tinge  which  spread  over  the  whites  of 
his  eyes,  but  did  not  obscure  the  injected  blood 
vessels.  His  eyes,  that's  what  gave  him  away. 
Funny  he  hadn't  noticed  how  pouchy  they  were 
getting,  not  wrinkled  exactly,  but  pouchy  under  the 
lid,  pink  and  a  little  shining,  like  the  stuff  about 
the  beak  of  a  turkey  cock.  And  he  seemed  pinker 
about  the  gills  than  usual.  Caldecot  did  not  go 
further  into  his  investigations.  He  did  not  want  to 
realize  that  he  had  the  face  of  a  man  who,  without 
exactly  being  drunk,  had  drunk  too  much  with 
cards  and  women.  He'd  been  killing  time,  and  now 
time  was  killing  him.  He  was  not  quite  humble  yet. 
He  told  himself :  "After  all,  it  isn't  so  bad.  Doesn't 
matter  what  a  man  looks  like  so  long  as  he's  fit. 
I've  been  too  easy,  that's  what  I've  been.  I've  half 
a  mind  to  get  back  and  give  that  little  fool  some- 
thing she'll  remember." 

He  hesitated.  No,  he'd  made  enough  of  a  fool  of 
himself  that  morning.  Besides,  she'd  be  gone.  Any- 
how, she'd  be  back  at  six.  He'd  got  that  much  out 
of  her.  Silly  of  him  not  to  have  kept  an  eye  on  her. 
Still,  she  said  she  had  to  be  waved  at  half-past 
twelve  and  couldn't  lunch  with  him  till  a  quarter  to 
two.  Couldn't  wait  till  a  quarter  to  two.  Caldecot 

told  himself  that  after  all  things  had  turned  out 

242 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

pretty  well,  that  in  the  end  Vee  had  been  civil  and 
promised  to  do  nothing  that  day.  He  could  man- 
age her  yet.  But,  all  the  same,  as  after  a  moment  he 
went  on,  doubts  weakened  him.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  he  thought  that  he  had  lost  Vera:  his  motto 
was  "one  Vera  down  another  come  on";  such  was 
life.  But  it  wasn't  for  her  to  give  him  the  chuck. 
He  might  hold  on  to  her  for  a  bit,  say  for  a  month, 
to  teach  her  a  lesson,  and  then  himself  give  her  the 
chuck.  That  could  be  done,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  that  a  woman  had  tried  to  drop  him,  and  this 
shattered  his  self-confidence.  Also,  the  emotions  of 
the  morning  had  exhausted  him.  His  legs  felt  light, 
and  he  had  an  ache  in  the  back  which  threatened  a 
return  of  his  old  lumbago.  As  he  stopped  outside 
a  big  public  house  near  Sloane  Street,  he  hesitated. 
He  had  dawdled  before  that  mirror  and  gone  so 
slowly  that  it  was  now  just  half -past  twelve.  As 
he  arrived,  a  little  crowd  of  men,  who  had  been  wait- 
ing, went  into  the  public  house.  He  wanted  a  drink 
badly,  but  drinking  in  public  houses  was  a  thing  he 
never  did  within  the  six-mile  radius.  A  bar  was 
diiferent,  of  course,  even  though  one  met  there  the 
same  kind  of  man  in  a  diiferent  suit.  But  he  wanted 
a  drink,  so,  quickly  looking  to  the  right  and  left,  as 
if  he  were  still  well-known  in  clubs  instead  of  being 
well-known  in  hotels,  as  if  one  of  those  pretty  women 
coming  out  of  the  draper's  opposite  were  of  his 
women,  Caldecot  went  into  the  public  house.  A  few 

moments  later,  having  swallowed  two  dry  martinis, 

243 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Ke  came  out,  chewing  an  olive,  his  head  in  the  air, 
feeling  already  a  little  more  secure.  But  this  secur- 
ity did  not  last  long;  a  couple  of  cocktails  before 
lunch  merely  made  up  his  ordinary  ration;  though 
they  warmed  him,  they  did  not  give  him  that  lovely 
feeling  of  careless  levity  which  he  now  obtained  only 
very  late  at  night.  Secure,  yes,  but  elated,  no. 
As  a  taxi  took  him  toward  the  west,  he  still  viewed 
himself  calmly.  Indeed,  he  could  not  separate  his 
thoughts  from  vague  anticipations  of  the  future. 
He  was  going  to  make  five  thousand  pounds,  yes, 
perhaps  more.  Spend  them,  and  what  then?  Hold 
on  to  Vee?  and  ultimately  give  her  the  boot?  Take 
up  with  some  other  sort  of  Vee?  And  what  then? 
Get  a  bit  older,  find  the  Vees  no  easier?  And 
money?  It  had  never  been  easy  to  get,  and  he 
guessed  it  wouldn't  get  any  easier.  What  was  he 
going  to  do  when  sixty-two  if  he  felt  like  this  at 
fifty-two?  Cirrhosis  of  the  liver,  which  his  doctor 
talked  about,  would  be  a  long  j  ob.  He  was  fright- 
ened; for  a  moment  he  even  thought  of  investing 
those  ten  thousand  pounds,  when  he  got  'em,  in  good 
old  railway  stock,  of  retiring  into  the  country,  where 
he'd  hunt  a  bit,  keep  some  dogs.  Might  breed  a 
bit ;  he  rather  fancied  Bedlingtons ;  they  might  be 
made  popular  if  the  press  was  handled  properly.  It 
was  rather  cheering,  this  vision  of  himself  in  riding- 
breeches  and  gaiters,  going  round  the  garden  to  see 
if  the  cauliflowers  were  coming  on,  and  smoking  a 

cigar  with  the  vicar  over  a  single  glass  of  port.  But, 

244 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

as  he  made  the  picture  he  knew  it  was  not  true ;  he 
knew  that  he  could  not  imprison  himself  in  the 
mud  and  dullness  of  the  country.  One  couldn't  turn 
back. 

When  Caldecot  reached  the  admirable  restaurant 
which  he  frequented,  he  ordered  another  cocktail 
before  he  selected  his  lunch.  As  if  protesting  against 
his  doubts,  he  ordered  turtle  soup,  truite  meuniere, 
mayonnaise  of  chicken,  and  one  of  these  jolly  Amer- 
ican compounds  of  fruit  and  ice  cream.  He  didn't 
feel  up  to  real  meat,  but  he  drank  his  pint  of  Mumm 
1904.  He  began  to  feel  better.  The  sense  of  power, 
which  always  came  to  him  when  he  purchased  expen- 
sive food  in  expensive  places,  caused  him  to  look 
round  at  the  other  lunchers,  at  the  men  with  a 
little  air  of  defiance,  at  the  women  with  the  eyes  of 
a  connoisseur,  appreciating  or  cheapening  their 
charms.  He  leaned  back  over  coffee  and  Benedictine, 
smoking  a  long  cigar.  He  felt  like  a  sultan.  Pretty 
little  "gal"  in  blue,  over  there.  Nice  fair  hair,  like 
that  stuff  you  find  on  the  roses  in  the  country, 
what's  it  called,  blight.  And  she'd  got  no  end  of  a 
blighter  with  her.  Caldecot  laughed  aloud  at  his 
own  wit,  and  went  on  surveying  the  assembly.  Yes, 
things  weren't  so  bad.  There  was  light  and  warmth, 
and  there  were  nice  things  to  eat,  they  felt  velvety 
to  your  tongue,  and  girls,  as  if  the  business  of  the 
world  were  to  produce  girls,  and  more  girls. 

When  Caldecot  left  the  restaurant,  his  Homburg 

at  the  right  angle,  and  swinging  his  malacca  cane, 

245 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

he  went  up  Regent  Street  with  a  decisive  air.  He 
was  perfectly  sober;  but  he  had  taken  from  the 
alcohol  a  sort  of  self -security.  Now,  he  was  a  gentle- 
man at  large,  with  money  in  his  purse  and  more  to 
come,  and  though  he  said  it  himself,  a  fine-looking 
man.  From  time  to  time  he  stopped  to  glance  into 
a  shop  window  and  wonder  if  he'd  have  a  dressing 
case  or  a  new  pair  of  enamel  links.  Or  to  look 
approvingly  into  the  eyes  of  a  passing  woman,  who 
sometimes  seemed  unconscious,  and  sometimes  looked 
away  with  the  absent  expression  of  the  woman  who 
is  noticing  everything.  He  felt  a  gay  dog.  He 
turned  round  to  look  at  a  girl,  and,  as  he  did  so, 
she  turned.  "A  poor  little  drab,"  thought  Calde- 
cot  as  he  went  on,  but  it  flattered  him  all  the  same. 
It  was  just  a  little  later,  near  Oxford  Circus, 
that  Caldecot  found  himself  following  more  intently 
a  pair  of  high-heeled  black  suede  shoes,  on  which 
rose,  graceful  as  amphoras,  limbs  veiled  in  tenuous 
silk  stockings.  She  had  such  a  neat  little  back.  A 
new  coat  and  skirt  made  of  that  nice  puce  boxcloth 
which  took  on  sharp  lines  and  paid  for  pressing. 
Chestnut  hair,  curling  spitefully  on  the  white  neck, 
and  leading  up  to  a  doggy  little  hat  of  black  patent 
leather,  trimmed  with  a  green  shaving  brush.  She 
went  rather  fast,  so  he  did  not  at  once  catch  her 
up.  Besides,  he  felt  sure  of  himself,  and  liked  to 
give  the  fox  a  run.  The  girl  stopped  for  a  moment 
to  look  into  a  shop  window;  as  he  passed  her,  he 
whistled  softly  to  himself :  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 

246 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

of  one  of  those  exquisite  profiles  which  are  all  blunted 
edges,  of  short  nose,  of  pouting,  well-cut  lips,  and 
obstinate  little  chin.  To  say  nothing  of  bright  blue 
eyes.  He  stopped  for  a  moment,  gazing  into  the 
incubator  shop  and  at  the  chickens  that  ran  about. 
But  his  practiced  eyes  were  upon  the  glass,  so  that 
at  last  he  saw  her  reflection  pass  him.  He  followed. 
At  Oxford  Circus  he  drew  abreast  of  her,  looked 
her  in  the  face,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  him. 
This  happened  again  twice  before  they  reached  Bond 
Street.  There  were  not  many  people  about,  and 
Caldecot  was  afraid  of  speaking  except  in  a  crowd. 
She  attracted  him  enormously.  She  seemed  so  young 
and  yet  so  decided.  An  adorable,  disobedient  child. 

His  opportunity  came  just  after  Bond  Street, 
where  a  little  crowd  was  waiting  for  the  omnibuses. 
In  three  strides,  drawing  close,  Caldecot  gently 
seized  the  girl  by  the  elbow.  Taking  off  his  hat,  he 
said,  "How  do  you  do?" 

To  his  surprise  the  girl  stopped,  and,  looking  at 
him  very  coolly,  said,  "How  much  longer  are  you 
going  to  follow  me?'* 

"Till  Doomsday,"  replied  Caldecot,  gallantly. 

"Will  you  please  go  away?"  said  the  girl.  She 
had  set  her  pink  lips  very  close  and  was  looking  at 
him  steadily  without  any  embarrassment.  So  the 
embarrassment  became  his:  "Oh,  I  say  .  .  .  don't 
be  so  snooty.  Don't  you  know  you're  very  charm- 
ing, and  that  I'd  love  to  make  your  acquaintance? 

Come  now,  what  shall  we  do  with  ourselves?    Shall 
17  247 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

we  go  and  have  a  cup  of  chocolate  somewhere?  It 
won't  commit  you  to  anything,  so  don't  be  shy." 

"I'm  not  shy,"  said  the  girl,  "but  I'm  looking  for 
a  policeman." 

"Rot,"  said  Caldecot,  "don't  talk  like  that.  You 
wouldn't  if  you  weren't  a  baby." 

Then,  for  a  moment,  he  thought  that  he  had 
gained  his  victory  for  the  girl  smiled.  "Go  on," 
she  said  kindly,  "don't  be  silly.  I  may  be  a  baby, 
but  you  aren't.  Trot  along;  you're  old  enough  to 
be  my  grandfather." 

"I  say  .  .  .  ."  began  Caldecot,  in  a  sinking  voice. 

"Please  let  me  alone,"  said  the  girl.  And,  as  she 
moved  away :  "You're  making  a  mistake,  and,  any- 
how .  .  .  why  don't  you  look  at  yourself?"  Almost 
at  once  she  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

Caldecot  did  not  follow  her.  What  was  this 
nonsense  ?  Wasn't  he  surrounded  with  couples  made 
up  of  fresh  young  things  like  this  and  creatures  who 
could  barely  crawl  ?  But  he  did  not  go  to  a  mirror 
now.  He  knew  it  was  not  age  only  which  repelled ; 
it  was  the  fact  that  he  looked  so  much  older  than 
he  was,  sodden  and  rakish.  As  he  went  toward  the 
Park  he  thought,  "I'm  down."  He  sat  in  the  Park 
for  an  hour,  swinging  his  cane  among  the  blades 
of  grass.  Never  were  his  thoughts  very  coherent. 
He  saw  himself  as  lonely  in  life  as  he  was  now  in  the 
Park;  he'd  run  his  course  to  the  point  of  wearing 
out;  he  was  not  like  other  men  who,  when  they'd 
worn  out  their  life,  had  some  old  companion  wife, 

248 


INQUEST  OF  A  RAKE 

some  nice  children,  to  make  them  believe  that  it 
didn't  matter;  he  was  an  old  worn  rake,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  except  to  go  on,  still  a 
rake,  older,  more  worn,  till  he  had  to  pay  for  what 
he  used  to  get  for  love;  to  play  nap  with  people 
picked  up  in  the  train,  because  men  wouldn't  take 
him  into  clubs;  to  become  popular  in  bars,  where 
smutty  stories  he'd  learned  thirty  years  before 
would  prove  fresh  to  the  ears  of  a  new  generation. 
Then  it  began  to  rain.  He  heard  the  rain  come, 
pattering  upon  the  leaves  like  the  oncoming  feet  of 
an  army  of  goblins.  It  spattered  his  face,  and  he 
did  not  move.  It  was  not  until  the  rain  became 
drenching  that  he  got  up  to  go.  As  he  went,  he 
told  himself  that  he  supposed  he'd  better  get  back 
to  the  hotel,  as  a  rabbit  thinks  of  its  hole.  Vera 
wouldn't  be  back  yet.  He  smiled;  he  knew  she 
wouldn't  come  back  at  all.  She'd  packed  her  traps 
and  "vamoosed"  while  he  was  at  lunch.  Oh,  hell  take 
her!  He  sighed.  He  turned  up  his  coat  collar 
against  the  rain.  As  he  obliterated  Vera,  he  thought 
without  excitement  of  the  business  before  him.  Well, 
one  job  after  another.  He  stuck  two  fingers  into 
his  waistcoat  pocket  and  found  Mrs.  Caldecot's 
latchkey.  He  felt  very  tired.  Now  the  rain  was 
coming  harder,  driven  by  the  wind  like  a  shower  of 
steel  spikes.  He  went  through  the  rain,  thinking  of 
something  else,  but  old  habit  maintained  in  him  the 
mechanical  impulse  still  to  swing  his  malacca  cane. 


249 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MINIONS  OP  THE  MOON 

IT  seemed  very  easy,  thought  Britford,  as  he  sat 
with  Mrs.  Caldecot  in  her  drawing-room,  slowly 
pulling  at  his  cigar.  Too  easy  to  be  true.  He 
looked  rather  sardonically  at  the  woman  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth  where  burned  a  pale  log  of  fire. 
She  didn't  know.  She  didn't  realize.  She  didn't 
understand  him.  Didn't  know  to  what  an  extremity 
he,  the  middle-aged  lawyer,  had  been  brought.  Well, 
she'd  soon  see.  He  hated  her,  he  almost  knew  it, 
as  he  thought  of  his  coming  triumph  over  her.  And 
there  she  sat,  peaceably  crocheting  some  shapeless 
garment  for  the  poor.  They  had  talked  of  idle 
things  during  dinner,  first  with  some  constraint,  for 
Mrs,  Caldecot  was  still  rather  nervous  of  him.  Then, 
as  she  discovered  in  him  the  old,  semihumorous 
Stephen,  she  had  become  natural.  They  had  talked 
of  plays,  discussed  mutual  friends;  he  had  told  a 
few  of  the  latest  bar  stories;  Mrs.  Caldecot  had 
laughed,  as  any  nice  woman  must  laugh  at  any 
man's  stories.  They  had  talked  quite  briskly,  and 
so  nothing  of  the  slightest  importance  had  been  said. 

Now,  as  they  sat  together,  each  on  one  side  of 
250 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

the  hearth,  in  the  conjugal  attitude  which  is  gen- 
erally assumed  by  a  man  and  a  woman  when  they 
are  alone,  even  if  there  is  and  can  be  nothing  be- 
tween them,  Britford  felt  impelled  to  greater  inti- 
macy. There  was  one  thing  they  had  not  talked 
about,  though  he  had  met  her  three  days  after  it 
happened.  That  day,  too,  he  had  wanted  to  talk 
about  it,  and  he  guessed  from  certain  hesitations 
that  she,  too,  had  something  to  say.  Only  to  talk 
about  that  meant  getting  back  to  the  old  position 
of  friendship  and  trust.  He  realized  dimly  that 
their  friendship  was  compromised  by  her  present 
condition,  and  that  Mrs.  Caldecot  knew  it.  Friend- 
ship had  been  possible,  while  she  was  linked  with 
another,  but  it  was  difficult  now.  "Yes,"  thought 
Britford,  "you're  a  woman  with  whom  one  must  either 
go  on  or  go  back ;  one  can't  stay  still."  But  as  during 
a  silence  he  analyzed  once  more  the  dear  detail  of  her 
profile,  the  full  mouth,  the  downcast  lashes,  as  he 
watched  the  tranquil  breast  that  rose  and  fell,  he 
wanted  intolerably  to  come  closer  to  her,  to  be  a  little 
more  of  her,  of  her  spirit  if  he  could  not  be  of  her 
flesh.  So,  feeling  vulgar  and  indiscreet,  but  driven 
by  that  impulse  to  tear  away  veils  and  force  con- 
fidence which  is  the  mark  of  the  lover,  he  said : 

"Have  you  seen  Bob  ?" 

There  was  a  hardly  perceptible  pause,  and  Mrs. 
Caldecot's  hands  went  on  with  their  work.  "No. 
But  I  shall  to-morrow.  He's  coming  to  see  me  with 
Patricia." 

251 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Oh  ...  I  knew  they  were  back  from  their 
honeymoon,  but  .  .  .  she's  coming  to  see  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  ."They  haven't  got 
a  house  yet,  so  I  can't  go  and  solemnly  call,  as  the 
conventions  decree.  So  he's  bringing  her  to  see 
me." 

After  a  moment,  during  which  Britford  wondered 
that  she  sounded  so  casual,  so  uninterested,  and 
asked  himself  whether  behind  such  magnificent  cour- 
age a  den  of  wild  things  might  not  be  imprisoned, 
he  said,  brutally,  though  wanting  to  be  tender, 
«<Dear  old  Claire  .  .  .  it's  hard." 

It  was  then  that  the  gray  eyes  opened  wide  upon 
him  and  that  a  little  tremor  came  into  her  voice. 
"Don't  Stephen.  Don't  be  kind  to  me.  I  can't 
bear  it." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I'm  not  forcing  sym- 
pathy on  you." 

She  smiled.  "I  don't  mean  that.  I  know  you 
wouldn't  say  things  that  might  make  you  think  less 
well  of  me.  People  do  when  they  pity  you.  But  I 
don't  want  a  gentle  world  and  kind  words,  or  liking, 
or  love,  or  anything.  Don't  you  understand,  I've 
got  to  find  things  hard?  So  that  I  may  not  soften 
when  I  run  up  against  them.  I  want  hard  words, 
contest.  How  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  keep  my 
lip  stiff  if  people  are  decent  to  me?" 

Britford  hesitated.  She  was  hurting  him  very 
much  by  making  him  feel  nervous,  now  that  only  a 

few  hours  separated  him  from  his  greatest  venture, 

252 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

making  him  feel  that  it  was  no  good,  that  he  couldn't 
get  her,  that  even  if  he  did  secure  her  physical  pres- 
ence, she  would  lie  in  his  arms  only  as  the  perfumed 
corpse  of  some  Egyptian  princess  in  the  ravenous 
embrace  of  the  embalmer.  Also,  behind  her  courage 
he  felt  her  anguish,  felt  it  personally,  as  if  this 
woman  had  got  into  his  skin,  as  if  his  emotions  were 
identical  with  her.  He  wanted  to  comfort  her  so 
suddenly  he  seized  her  hand. 

"Claire  .  .  .  don't  take  it  so  hard.  I  thought 
...  I  thought  you'd  be  getting  over  it.  Oh,  don't 
be  angry.  One  does,  you  know,  one  does  get  over 
these  things." 

She  looked  at  him  rather  sadly.  **Dear  Stephen, 
does  one?  You've  wanted  me  for  a  long  time:  have 
you  got  over  it?  You  see  you  can't  answer.  It's 
not  my  fault  if  I've  spoiled  your  life." 

"You  haven't.  You've  given  me  the  only  good 
thing  .  .  ." 

"No,  Stephen,  no.  I  don't  give  men  good  things. 
'At  least,  Geoffrey  went  to  the  dogs,  and  Bob  .  .  . 
went  away,  and  you  who  might  have  had  a  woman 
to  love  you,  and  children  .  .  ." 

"You  know  I  want  only  you,"  said  Britford. 

"Poor  Stephen.  You've  been  chasing  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp.  Let  my  hand  go.  Even  if  you  had  held 
your  will-o'-the-wisp,  it'd  only  have  taken  you  to  a 
morass.  Let  me  go,  Stephen,  you're  hurting  me." 

He  let  her  go,  naturally  responding  to  this  ap- 
peal, but  his  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  her,  as  he 

253 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

bent  forward,  as  he  strove  to  cast  before  her  a  pas- 
sion that  must  be  contagious,  striving  as  a  bee  to 
expend  himself  entirely  in  an  act  of  emotional  union. 
"Claire,"  he  murmured,  "don't  think  of  it  any  more. 
Don't  think  of  the  past.  Only  think  of  the  time 
that's  got  to  come.  Oh,  let  me  love  you.  Just  do 
that,  and  I  won't  ask  you  for  anything  more.  Only 
let  me  be  with  you.  Let  me  ...  be  the  carpet  for 
your  little  feet." 

She  did  not  reply.  He  puzzled  her  in  these  new 
moods,  this  man  who  six  months  before  had  been 
calm  and  humorous,  but  now  seemed  pursued  by 
the  Furies.  At  fifty !  Like  a  dead  tree  which,  at  the 
touch  of  humid  spring,  defiantly  puts  forth  a  crown 
of  leaves,  pale  and  glittering.  He  was  so  familiar 
to  her,  and  in  a  sense  so  dear ;  he  offered  something 
definite  in  a  world  of  mist.  She  nearly  said,  "Oh, 
have  your  will  with  me,  and  don't  let  me  think." 
But  the  steeliness  within  her  once  again  forbade  that 
she  should  bend.  So  she  shook  her  head  and  said : 
"No,  Stephen,  it's  no  good.  I'd  feel  degraded. 
There,  don't  say  any  more  about  it.  Let's  talk  of 
something  else.  What  are  you  going  to  do  this 
winter?  Are  you  going  to  the  Riviera?" 

Britford  sighed  and  accepted  her  mood ;  little  by 
little  the  evening  passed  pleasantly.  It  was  not  till 
eleven  o'clock  that  he  began  to  be  oppressed  by  the 
drama  in  which  that  night  he  must  take  part.  He 
had  planned  to  go  away  at  eleven,  but  after  the 
clock  struck,  when  he  realized  that  this  was  the  be- 

254 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

ginning  of  an  incredible  adventure,  he  was  afraid. 
He  was  not  weakening  exactly,  but  he  did  not  know 
what  the  consequences  would  be :  he  was  the  sort  of 
man  who  liked  to  know  exactly  what  he  was  in  for. 
While  he  talked,  he  had  visions  of  the  coming  night. 
There  would  be  a  scene.  Well,  it  was  too  late  to 
stop  it,  but  he  dared  not  begin.  He  could  not  be- 
lieve that  he  had  originated  the  thing  that  was  to 
happen.  He  stayed,  if  only  to  put  it  off  a  little. 
After  all,  there  was  no  hurry.  So  the  conversation 
went  on,  but  it  dragged  because  of  the  preoccupa- 
tion Britford  had  upon  his  mind.  It  was  only  at 
twenty  past  eleven,  when  Mrs.  Caldecot  very 
slightly  yawned  that  Britford  jumped  up,  resolutely 
now,  and  said  he  must  go.  Mrs.  Caldecot  saw  him 
down  to  the  hall,  the  servants  having  long  before 
gone  to  bed.  She  helped  him  on  with  his  overcoat, 
said  she  would  be  free  for  the  opera.  He  agreed 
vaguely,  and  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

Stephen  Britford  stood  for  a  moment,  his  ear 
almost  against  the  door.  Yes,  it  was  as  usual, 
she'd  forgotten  to  pull  down  the  latch.  He  listened 
for  a  moment,  not  so  much  because  he  thought  she 
would  come  back,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he 
wasted  a  little  time,  he  would  be  protected  against 
the  beginning  of  this  necessary  adventure.  After 
all,  he  could  still  stop  it.  One  didn't  do  things 
like  the  one  he  had  planned :  but  as  he  went  down 
the  steps  he  knew  that  one  did,  and  that  he  would. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  for  some  hours,  and  this 

256 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

troubled  him.  He  wondered  why  he  had  set  the 
hour  so  late.  What  was  the  point  of  it  ?  What  the 
deuce  was  he  going  to  do  until  half -past  three?  He 
might  go  home.  Indeed,  he  turned  toward  the  east, 
but  as  he  went  he  realized  very  well  that  with  this 
preoccupation  upon  him  he  could  not  sit  quietly  by 
a  fire  reading  the  reminiscences  of  Sir  Henry  Haw- 
kins. He  needed  movement,  activity.  As  he  reached 
Park  Lane,  he  thought  of  walking  round  the  Park. 
That  would  take  him  an  hour  and  a  half.  But  as 
he  considered  the  idea,  he  disliked  it.  Any  idea  was 
repulsive  to  him,  any  object.  He  was  afraid;  he 
wanted  things  to  happen  for  him;  he  didn't  mind 
being  the  god  in  the  machine,  but  he  did  not  want 
to  be  the  god  in  the  car.  He  thought,  "Lucky  she 
didn't  put  the  latch  down ;  they'd  have  had  to  pick 
the  lock,  and  that's  risky."  He  smiled  at  himself  as 
he  reviewed  the  plan.  Yes,  it  was  all  clear ;  it  couldn't 
fail.  He  would  meet  Caldecot  at  half -past  three, 
receive  the  suitcase  containing  his  pajamas,  receive 
also  the  latchkey.  He  would  go  to  Mrs  Caldecot's 
house,  let  himself  in,  quietly  go  up  to  the  spare 
room,  get  into  his  pajamas.  Oh,  he  mustn't  forget 
to  leave  the  latchkey  in  the  lock.  Bad  slip  that. 
Then,  at  four  o'clock  exactly,  Caldecot  would  arrive 
with  the  two  inquiry  agents,  enter  the  house,  and 
catch  him  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Caldecot's  room. 

The  legal  mind,  applying  itself  to  frenzied  device, 
saw  that  there  was  no  flaw  in  this.    It  was  natural 

that  Caldecot  should  have  a  latchkey  to  his  own 

256 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

house.  The  servants  knew  that  he,  Britford,  had 
dined  with  Mrs.  Caldecot,  and  they  did  not  know 
that  she  had  let  him  out.  It  was  quite  simple: 
Caldecot  would  divorce  her.  He  would  be  the  co- 
respondent. Ruin?  Yes,  of  course,  but  why  not? 
What  was  the  use  of  having  amassed  a  fortune  unless 
he  could  throw  it  into  the  lap  of  the  woman  he 
loved  ?  even  if  she  was  reluctant. 

As  Britford  reached  Marble  Arch,  he  put  to  him- 
self once  more  the  only  thing  that  frightened  him, 
"Suppose  that  after  playing  her  such  a  black- 
guardly trick  she  refused  to  marry  me?"  He 
laughed  to  himself,  and  once  more  assured  himself 
of  the  extremity  to  which  he  would  go.  No,  none 
of  that.  After  the  exposure,  she'd  swear  to  marry 
him  the  day  after  the  decree  was  made  absolute.  If 
not  .  .  .  there'd  be  two  corespondents  instead  of 
one,  not  only  himself,  but  Rodboarne,  and  Rod- 
bourne's  young  wife  should  have  her  share.  He 
could  pay  Caldecot  to  do  that. 

No,  there  was  no  limit  now.  Two  men  who  passed 
him  turned  round,  puzzled  by  his  convulsed  features. 
No,  there  was  no  limit. 

Britford  was  ready  to  smash  them  all,  to  ruin 
himself;  to  disgrace  Claire's  old  lover,  to  break 
Patricia's  heart.  There  was  no  one  he  would  not 
involve.  He  would  have  destroyed  mankind.  He 
was  ready  even  to  befoul  Mrs.  Caldecot  herself,  so 
that  he  might  reduce  her  to  a  creature  without  a  will, 

to  a  creature  fit  to  be  taken  and  enj  oy ed,  even  tear- 

257 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

lul,  even  marred,  even  rebellious.  No,  there  was  no 
limit  now. 

Such  intensity  could  not  long  be  maintained ;  after 
a  while,  as  Britford  went  on,  a  cooler  view  began 
to  affect  him.  His  resolution  did  not  become  less, 
but  more  and  more  he  saw  himself  playing  a  neces- 
sary part.  Again  he  rehearsed  his  movements,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  his  determination  grew  greater  because 
it  was  colder.  It  was  folly,  yes,  folly,  but  wasn't 
he  entitled  to  folly  after  fifty  years  of  wisdom? 
Wasn't  folly  the  greatest  luxury  men  could  indulge 
in  ?  The  thing  for  which  we  should  thank  God  when 
it  arises  in  our  breast.  He'd  lived  by  rule  and  the 
pursuit  of  justice;  now  he'd  live  by  passion,  if  only 
for  a  crowded  night.  He  might  fail,  yes,  he  knew 
that,  though  he  did  not  expect  to  do  so,  for  man 
might  always  fail  when  dealing  with  the  coagulated 
mist  that  is  called  woman.  Yes,  he  might  fail,  but 
it  was  worth  trying. 

He  was  in  Church  Street  now,  that  was  very 
silent,  noting  little  details,  the  tumble-down  shops 
at  the  top,  and  the  orange  curtains  at  an  upper 
window.  Some  artist,  no  doubt.  But  the  idea  that 
he  might  fail  had  weakened  him  a  little,  and  he 
suffered  a  physical  reaction  from  his  emotions. 
Fail!  What  was  going  to  happen  to  him  if  he 
failed?  He  wasn't  the  sort  of  man  to  kill  himself, 
he  knew  that.  One  couldn't  commit  suicide  unless 
one  went  a  bit  mad,  and  he  couldn't  do  that.  He 
was  too  old  to  go  to  the  dogs  properly ;  one  had  to 

258 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

start  young  to  do  that.  No,  if  he  failed,  he'd  crawl 
away,  he  supposed,  to  the  Riviera,  golf,  and  water 
colors.  In  his  weakness  he  again  was  afraid  to 
test  himself  in  the  crucible  of  fire.  After  all,  he'd 
lived  without  her  for  twenty  years:  couldn't  he 
go  on?  He  stopped  for  a  moment  outside  Kensing- 
ton Church.  It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  it  was  a  swan-gray  night,  where  shone  no  stars, 
a  tender  November  night,  warm  as  the  cheek  of  a 
woman  that  has  been  beautiful,  a  spring  night  hur- 
rying to  catch  up  its  vanished  sisters.  He  felt 
rather  hot,  and  did  not  know  what  course  to  take. 
A  woman  was  coming  toward  him,  going  slowly.  He 
watched  her  without  interest,  and  it  was  only  that 
as  she  came  closer  he  noticed  how  she  dragged 
her  feet  in  little  patent-leather  shoes  with  paste 
buckles,  that  the  droop  of  the  shoulders,  the  hang 
of  the  head  under  a  black  picture  hat  decorated  with 
yellow  cock-feathers  indicated  complete  lassitude. 
As  she  drew  near  him,  as  he  realized  what  she  was, 
her  whole  attitude  changed.  Suddenly  the  body  was 
erect,  the  head  archly  held  sideways;  a  look  of 
invitation  came  into  fine  dark  eyes,  young  eyes, 
younger  than  the  faintly  puffy,  rosy  cheeks.  She 
smiled.  She  was  trying  to  be  young.  "Hullo, 
saucy!"  she  remarked,  looking  toward  the  police 
station  to  see  if  any  constable  stood  there.  As  there 
was  nobody  about,  she  stopped.  "All  on  your  lone- 
some?" 

Britford  stared  at  her.     She  had  so  little  to  do 

259 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

with  the  things  he  was  thinking  about  that  he  an- 
swered, "I'm  just  waiting." 

"Were  you,  dear?  Waiting  for  me?  That  was 
nice  of  you." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Britford,  making  a  movement 
as  if  to  walk  on. 

"Don't  go,"  cried  the  woman,  laying  upon  his 
arm  a  hand  encased  in  a  soiled  white  kid  glove. 
"You're  a  nice  boy.  You're  my  fancy." 

Britford  hesitated.  The  physical  contact  com- 
forted him,  assured  him  that  life  was  real.  Also, 
he  was  sorry  for  her,  for  she  wasn't  very  fresh,  and 
it  was  not  only  the  dirty  glove,  but  one  of  the 
yellow  feathers  was  broken,  and  the  lace  blouse  was 
pinned  together  with  a  steel  safety  pin.  She  looked 
so  tired,  with  her  lax  face  and  her  sideways  gleam- 
ing eyes,  so  tired.  While  she  held  him  like  that, 
taut  and  hungry,  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  her, 
walking  all  the  way  from  Leicester  Square,  through 
the  streets  as  they  grew  more  silent,  less  likely  to 
yield  her  food  for  another  day,  dragging  upon  the 
pavement  those  little  black  shoes  with  the  paste 
buckles.  The  pain  of  the  world  was  on  Stephen, 
and  he  felt  at  one  with  it.  He,  too,  had  his  share. 
Poor  thing !  How  grateful  she'd  be.  And  it  would 
be  so  easy,  without  struggle,  without  despair,  with- 
out hope.  Just  to  sink.  Just  to  feel  warm  arms 
about  one's  neck  and  be  sung  as  a  lullaby  a  catch 
from  the  music  halls.  "There's  any  easy  way," 
thought  Britford,  "for  men  as  well  as  for  women." 

260 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

"Come  on,  old  dear,"  said  the  woman,  growing 
impatient,  "or  the  fire'll  be  out.  It's  only  round 
the  corner." 

Stephen  withdrew  his  arm.  "No.  I'm  sorry. 
But  .  .  .  here,  just  take  this."  He  drew  out  his 
pocketbook  and  offered  her  a  pound  note,  which  she 
took,  staring  at  him." 

"Sure  you  aren't  dotty?"  she  said. 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  sigh.  "I'm 
not  quite  sure.  It  may  be  that  I'm  dotty.  Good 
night." 

"Well !"  said  the  woman,  as  he  walked  off,  "you 
are  a  coughdrop." 

**Yes,"  thought  Britford  as  he  went,  "I  am  a 
coughdrop."  His  mind  was  so  disturbed  that  he 
pondered  for  some  time  on  the  etymology  of  this 
piece  of  slang.  To  be  called  a  mug,  a  flat,  a  softy, 
one  could  understand  that;  those  words  sounded 
like  what  they  meant.  But  a  coughdrop?  Some- 
thing emollient  ?  Soothing,  therefore  gentle  and  soft. 
Philology,  he  felt,  was  leading  him,  as  a  Frenchman 
would  have  put  it,  to  seek  noon  at  fourteen  o'clock. 
He  wandered  about  a  little  longer  near  Kensington 
High  Street  Station,  then  into  Kensington  Square. 
Somehow  he  wasted  an  hour,  sometimes  determined, 
sometimes  vacillating,  sometimes  thoughtless  and  re- 
signed to  what  must  be,  as  if  prepared  for  a  sen- 
tence of  death,  or  its  strange  similar,  a  sentence  of 
life. 

Still,  when  some  moments  before  half-past  three 
261 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

he  reached  in  Lowndes  Square  the  spot  appointed 
for  his  meeting  with  Caldecot,  he  was  all  energy, 
though  rather  nervous  and  inclined  to  look  about 
him,  for  the  square  was  entirely  deserted.  The 
night  was  now  less  warm,  and  the  mist,  a  little 
thicker,  hung  like  a  veil  of  smoke  over  the  green- 
black  sky,  where  a  thin-crescent  moon  had  at  last 
risen  over  the  horizon  and  hung  as  a  desolate 
blurred  glow.  The  silence  was  complete.  Not  even 
the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  moved,  but  lay  muffled 
in  mist  and  night.  He  felt  disturbed  because  idle, 
because  now  he  must  not  move  away,  because  he 
must  wait,  unable  to  afford  the  opiate  of  activity  to 
his  strained  nerves.  His  thoughts  were  confused. 
He  rehearsed  his  part  again,  repeated  what  he 
would  say  to  her;  his  mind  turned  to  a  case  on 
which  he  was  engaged,  and  he  considered  once  more 
the  course  to  take.  And  he  had  to  see  his  dentist, 
too.  Across  the  square,  relieving  the  uniform  black- 
ness of  the  house  fronts,  lights  were  burning  in  a 
second-floor  window.  The  best  bedroom.  He  won- 
dered what  that  light  meant.  A  light  at  half-past 
three  in  the  morning?  Death?  Love?  Disease? 
The  composition  of  an  immortal  poem?  Or  just  a 
light  forgotten  by  a  housemaid?  In  his  present 
mood,  when  his  legal  dryness  was  torn  away  by  this 
intense  adventure,  Britford  found  himself  sensitive 
and  philosophic.  That  incomprehensible  light,  it 
was  like  eyes  behind  which  no  one  can  tell  what  is 

happening  .  .  .  behind  which,  perhaps,  nothing  is 

262 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

happening,  however  much  one  may  want  to  think 
that  their  clear  depths  conceal  a  drama.  One  didn't 
know.  One  just  messed  along  a  bit,  and  life  went 
on.  Funny  it  made  such  a  difference,  the  way  one 
messed  about.  One  thought  it  did.  One  conceived 
in  one's  mind  that  things  were  important,  and  they 
became  important.  How  difficult  it  was  to  conceive 
them  as  unimportant,  and  thus  to  reduce  them  to 
nothingness,  to  discover  a  world  without  suffering 
or  pleasure,  without  evil  or  good,  without  hope  or 
regret,  a  world  in  space,  without  physical  upper  or 
physical  lower,  therefore  morally  without  virtue  or 
vice.  He  saw  the  world  as  it  was,  suspended  in 
space,  without  bottom  or  top.  With  a  sense  of 
discovery  he  told  himself,  "There  is  no  top."  All 
the  same,  he  knew  that  there  was  a  top. 

"Well,  Britford,"  said  voice,  by  his  side.  As 
he  started,  Caldecot  said,  "Asleep,  as  you  stand, 
eh?" 

"No,  I  wasn't  asleep." 

"Good  for  you.  You'll  have  to  look  alive  within 
half  an  hour.  Feeling  all  right?  No  weakening?" 
As  he  did  not  reply,  Caldecot  went  on :  "You  look 
as  if  you  wanted  a  peg.  Too  late,  I'm  afraid. 
Come  on,  man,  pull  yourself  together." 

For  a  moment  Britford  did  not  reply.  He  was 
staring  at  Caldecot.  He  was  looking  pretty  bad  he 
thought,  old  and  ravaged;  the  way  he  cocked  his 
hat  made  it  worse.  Caldecot  looked  "down  and 
out."  Somehow  that  strengthened  Britford.  The 
18  263 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

fact  that  his  accomplice  looked  haggard  suggested 
to  him  that  he  must  supply  energy  to  the  adventure. 
Somebody  had  to  be  strong.  Responding  to  the  call 
of  his  vanity,  he  said,  abruptly:  "Got  the  key? 
Thanks.  Suitcase?  Thank  you." 

"You  seem  pretty  cool,"  said  Caldecot,  half- 
enviously.  "Well,  that's  all  right.  You  know  what 
to  do?  You  just  go  ahead,  and  I'll  bring  my  fel- 
lows along  when  the  clock  strikes  four.  And,  I 
say,"  as  Britford  moved  off,  "don't  forget  to  leave 
the  key  in  the  lock.  If  you  don't,  we'll  have  to 
pick  it,  and  that'll  take  time,  and  if  the  police  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  damned  fool?"  asked  Brit- 
ford,  and  strode  away. 

Now  he's  started.  All  was  welL  He  felt  rather 
exultant,  and  his  heart  beat.  Now  "indeed"  he  was 
going  to  live,  to  do  those  desperate  things  that 
people  talked  about,  and  which,  the  law  courts  told 
him,  some  people  did.  As  he  reached  Seville  Street 
he  thought,  "Now  to  prove  myself  a  man."  He 
did  not  tell  himself  that  there  was  device  rather  than 
daring,  or  at  best,  the  daring  of  the  gambler  who 
empties  his  pockets  on  the  last  throw.  That  com- 
forted him:  as  this  was  the  last  throw  now  he  had 
nothing  to  lose.  Firmly  he  went  up  the  steps,  slowly 
and  very  silently  opened  the  front  door.  Every- 
thing favored  him.  There  was  neither  click  nor 
creak.  He  closed  the  door  soundlessly.  Number 
one:  Key?  Yes,  all  right:  left  in  the  lock.  Num- 
ber two :  Shoes.  He  squatted  carefully  on  the  mat 

264 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

and  removed  his  shoes.  Number  three:  Tie  the 
laces  together ;  put  the  shoes  inside  one's  coat  under 
one's  left  arm.  Number  four:  Suitcase  must  not 
swing  against  the  wall.  To  be  placed  under  the 
coat,  under  the  right  arm.  All  right?  Right. 
He  listened  for  a  moment.  The  silence  of  the  house 
was  aggressive,  except  that  far  away  in  the  base- 
ment he  could  hear  the  drip  from  a  tap.  For  one 
shivering  moment  he  hesitated.  It  was  still  time  to 
go  away,  still  time  to  hope  and  to  tread  the  easy 
ways  of  persistence.  He  wanted  to  run,  but  the 
collected  energy  of  the  last  few  days  reminded  him 
that  now  manhood  forbade  him  to  turn.  So,  very 
slowly,  choosing  for  his  feet  the  part  of  the  tread 
that  was  nearest  to  the  wall  and  which  would  not 
creak,  he  first  reached  the  drawing-room  floor,  then 
the  second.  It  was  as  if  everything  served  him,  for 
he  had  apprehended  the  difficulty  of  noiselessly  turn- 
ing the  door  handle  of  the  spare  room,  behind  Mrs. 
Caldecot's  room :  the  door  was  aj  ar.  Now,  careful. 
He  did  not  know  the  geography  of  that  room.  There 
might  be  chairs  or  tables  anywhere.  Once  more  he 
squatted;  the  door  closed  behind  him.  With  infi- 
nitely slow  movements,  he  released  his  shoes  and 
placed  them  under  his  left  leg,  so  that  he  might  not 
forget  that  they  were  there  when  he  stood  up.  With 
equally  slow  movements  he  opened  the  suitcase,  in 
which  was  an  electric  torch.  No.  No  difficulties. 
Nothing  to  collide  with.  But  all  the  same  he  sat 
where  he  was,  fearing  that  the  middle  of  the  floor 

265 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

might  creak.  He  took  out  his  watch:  twenty  to 
four.  Time  enough,  but  he  wanted  to  be  active. 
So  once  more  the  slow  movements  began;  one  by 
one  he  removed  his  clothes,  and  dressed  himself  in 
the  pajamas  which,  with  the  torch,  filled  the  suit- 
case. 

He  was  ready.  Still  no  sound.  What  time  was 
it?  He  dared  not  look  at  his  watch  for  fear  of 
making  a  noise  as  he  searched  the  clothes.  Would 
they  never  come?  He  sat  in  the  blackness,  appalled 
now  by  the  fantastic  nature  of  the  affair.  For  the 
first  time  he  realized  fully  the  indignation  that  would 
overwhelm  Mrs.  Caldecot.  He  called  himself  a  fool : 
her  proud  nature  would  not  let  her  submit  to  this. 
She'd  defy  them.  She'd  tell  Caldecot  to  bring  the 
case  if  he  liked,  and  she  wouldn't  care  what  disgrace 
fell  upon  her.  She  wouldn't  give  in.  Oh,  what  a 
fool  he'd  been.  Perhaps  he  could  stop  it  yet.  But 
he  remembered  that  Caldecot,  with  his  witnesses, 
would  arrive  in  a  moment  or  two,  that  he  couldn't 
get  back  into  his  clothes  now,  and  that  even  if  he  did 
a  man  like  Caldecot  wouldn't  let  this  chance  slip. 
Caldecot  wanted  his  damages,  and  he  wouldn't  let 
Britford  go.  He  ground  his  teeth  and  thought, 
"I'll  go  on." 

Two  or  three  minutes  later,  his  sharpened  ears 
heard  the  hall  door  swing  open  and  then  close.  He 
had  left  his  door  ajar,  and  so,  after  a  moment,  there 
rose  up  to  him  the  faint  glow  of  the  hall  lights 

reflected  along  the  wall  of  the  stairs.     They  were 

266 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

there.  He  listened  for  voices  and  footsteps.  He 
heard  nothing.  What  were  they  doing?  Perhaps 
they  hadn't  all  come.  He  felt  madly  impatient ;  his 
nerves  were  pulling  him  as  strings  do  a  marionette, 
and  a  vein  in  his  forehead  persistently  beat.  Why 
didn't  they  come  up?  He  was  terrified  and  enraged. 
He  wanted  them  to  come  up,  if  only  to  make  an  end 
of  this  strain.  It  was  only  some  minutes  later  that 
he  remembered  the  exactly  rehearsed  plan:  when 
four  o'clock  struck  and  not  before. 

In  the  hall,  Caldecot  turned  to  the  two  men  who 
had  followed  him,  one  a  young  fellow  in  blue  serge, 
the  other,  red-faced,  big-beaked,  with  a  yellow  mus- 
tache, like  a  dying  and  drunken  Gaul.  They  stood 
with  a  half-military  air,  as  if  awaiting  orders. 
They  amused  Caldecot.  It  seemed  such  a  funny 
job,  being  a  private  inquiry  agent.  And  catching 
ladies  on  the  hop.  Still  .  .  . 

"Look  here,  you  two,"  he  whispered,  "you  know 
what  you've  got  to  do?  Just  keep  dead  quiet  till 
four  o'clock  strikes.  Then  follow  me  and  take  a 
note  of  what  you  see." 

The  young  man  in  blue  nodded,  looked  at  his 
wrist  watch,  and  silently  held  it  out  to  Caldecot :  it 
was  seven  minutes  to  four.  Raising  his  feet  high, 
and  laying  them  down  flat,  so  that  he  walked  in 
silence,  Caldecot  went  into  the  dining  room  and 
turned  on  the  light.  This  was  the  first  time  for  many 
years  that  he  had  entered  this  room.  It  hadn't 

changed  much,  except  that  the  curtains  were  new. 

267 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Not  bad.  There  was  the  old  Chippendale  sideboard 
they'd  picked  up  somewhere  in  the  north.  By  Jove, 
that  chair  had  lost  its  middle  scrolling.  He'd  always 
told  Claire  it  was  going  to  bits.  Very  nice  and 
comfortable.  With  a  little  smile  that  creased  the 
hard  mouth  he  sat  down  in  the  carving  chair  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  Looked  all  right.  Clarrie  had 
kept  the  furniture  well.  Same  old  ofls  on  the  walls. 
Nice,  solid  old  Sheraton  clock,  that  one  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Worth  fifty  quid  these  days.  He 
looked  about  the  sober,  agreeable  room,  taking  in 
with  pleasure  the  thick  feel  under  his  feet  of  the 
green  Turkey  carpet,  the  reflection  of  a  crystal  de- 
canter in  the  polished  wood  of  the  sideboard.  It 
was  so  established,  so  absolutely  all  right.  "Nice 
place,"  he  thought,  and  smiled.  He  looked  at  his 
watch :  three  minutes  to  four.  He'd  better  get  busy. 
Still  smiling  he  went  over  his  plan.  Britford  should 
be  corespondent.  He  fingered  through  his  coat  the 
letter  in  his  breast  pocket,  which  agreed  to  five  thou- 
sand pounds'  damages.  He  smiled:  how  easy  it 
would  be  to  twist  ten  thousand  out  of  these  people, 
when  he'd  got  them.  Well,  that  might  come  in 
handy.  One  never  knew.  At  that  moment  he  heard 
from  the  church  the  first  stroke  of  four,  got  up, 
this  time  making  no  effort  to  muffle  his  footsteps, 
and  went  briskly  into  the  hall.  As  the  fourth  stroke 
sounded,  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Now  boys,  follow 
me,"  and  went  toward  the  stairs. 

As  the  first  stroke  sounded  Britford  had  mean- 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

while  leaped  to  the  door  of  the  spare  room,  and 
laid  a  hand  upon  the  handle  of  Mrs.  Caldecot's 
door.  There  he  stood  while  the  second  and  third 
strokes  sounded,  his  heart  beating  so  that  he  could 
hardly  breathe.  He  was  in  for  it.  Too  late  to  back 
out.  At  the  fourth  stroke  he  opened  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot's door,  entered  the  room,  and,  as  agreed,  re- 
mained, his  head  peering  through  the  opening,  while 
the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  three  men  coming  up  the 
stairs  synchronized  with  the  intolerable  beating  of 
his  heart. 

As  the  three  reached  the  landing,  Caldecot  gave 
a  shout,  turning  to  the  two  agents:  "There!  you 
see !  You  see  that  ?  In  my  wife's  bedroom !" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  older  man,  "that's  all  right, 
sir." 

For  one  moment  Britford  was  frightened,  for 
Caldecot  might  have  been  a  good  actor.  A  frightful 
look  of  rage  overspread  his  features,  "Britford," 
he  murmured  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "I'll  kill  you  for 
this,"  and  a  rush  of  blood  seemed  to  come  into  his 
head.  The  veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  As  he 
raised  a  fist,  the  two  agents,  entirely  deceived,  seized 
him  by  arm  and  shoulder.  "That's  all  right,  sir," 
said  the  young  man.  "No  need  to  make  a  scene,  sir. 
We've  seen  all  we  need." 

"Seen  all  you  need,"  shouted  Caldecot.  "Good 
Godi  Let  me  get  at  him  and  at  the  strumpet 
inside." 

"I  say,"  murmured  Britford,  "don't  make  a  scene, 
269 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

.  .  .  the  servants  will  hear  you."  This  was  genuine, 
for  they  had  not  thought  of  them. 

"Damn  the  servants !"  shouted  Caldecot,  and  for 
a  moment  the  landing  was  occupied  by  the  struggle 
between  Caldecot  and  the  two  detectives,  whom  he 
whirled  about  him,  causing  them  to  crash  against 
wall  and  stair-rails,  while  Britford,  feeling  absurd 
and  terrified,  stood  before  them  limply  in  the  wide 
open  doorway.  Suddenly  the  struggle  ceased,  and 
Britford  jumped  aside  along  the  landing.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence.  Before  them,  staring  and 
rubbing  her  eyes,  stood  Mrs.  Caldecot,  her  hair 
plaited,  clad  only  in  her  nightgown;  over  this 
she  held  absurdly  clasped  an  eiderdown  quilt, 
which  instinctive  modesty  had  caused  her  to  pick 
up.  She  stared  at  all  four  in  turn,  her  eyes  dis- 
tended, as  if  she  wondered  whether  she  had 
gone  mad,  or  were  sleep-walking  in  a  dream. 
Her  senses  still  overwhelmed  by  sleep,  she  made 
vague  sounds,  from  which  at  last  emerged  the 
word,  "What?" 

"What!"  bellowed  Caldecot,  "what,  indeed?  So 
I've  caught  you.  Oh,  don't  stare  at  me  like  that,  as 
if  you  didn't  understand." 

"But  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  and  suddenly 
saw  Britford,  hands  outspread  against  the  wall. 
Some  dim  idea  that  her  husband,  with  a  couple  of 
other  men,  was  burgling  the  house  was  shattered  by 
the  sight  of  Britford  in  his  pajamas.  Her  brain 

refused  to  act. 

270 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

"Look  here,"  said  Caldecot,  suddenly  adopting  a 
calm  tone.  "Let  me  go,  you  two.  It's  all  right." 

''Don't  make  a  row,  Guv'nor,"  said  the  older  man. 
"We've  seen  what  we  want." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Caldecot,  calmly.  "Well,  Clarrie, 
I've  caught  you.  I've  suspected  you  and  that  man  for 
sometime.  We've  watched  you.  You  didn't  know  that 
your  little  game  couldn't  be  kept  quiet  forever,  eh?" 

"Geoffrey,  what  do  you  mean?" 

She  was  a  little  more  conscious  of  the  four  men, 
and  with  trembling  hands  that  failed  to  hold,  tried 
to  wrap  herself  up  more  completely  in  the  quilt. 

<fYou  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Caldecot.  "Are 
you  going  to  try  and  bluff." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  looked  toward  Britford.  Certainly 
she  was  going  mad. 

"Well,"  said  Caldecot,  "we  needn't  stay  here  all 
night.  You'll  get  a  writ  next  week,  and  this  man 
is  the  corespondent."  In  a  sad  voice,  he  added: 
"Clarrie,  I  didn't  expect  this  of  you.  Nor  of  you, 
Britford."  He  sighed. 

"But  look  here,  Geoffrey,"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
suddenly  regaining  her  strength,  "I  don't  under- 
stand what's  happened.  But  there's  a  mistake  .  .  . 
there's  something  wrong.  I  don't  know  what  all 
this  means.  Stephen  left  the  house  after  din- 
ner .  .  ." 

As  she  stopped,  the  younger  of  the  inquiry  agents 
sharply  said,  "Did  your  maid  let  him  out,  Ma'am?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "I  did." 
271 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"That's  all  right,  Ma'am/*  said  the  young  man. 
"I  only  wanted  to  know."  Turning  to  Caldecot, 
"Well,  sir,  I  don't  think  there's  anything  more." 

While  he  put  the  question,  Caldecot  remained 
staring  at  his  wife  with  an  intentness  which,  in  her 
present  state,  terrified  her.  She  felt  distraught, 
wanted  to  speak,  but  could  not  understand. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "There's  just  some- 
thing else.  Will  you  two  kindly  get  hold  of  that 
gentleman  and  his  clothes,  find  a  taxi,  and  take  him 
home." 

"Shall  I  get  one  for  you,  too,  sir?"  asked  the 
younger  man. 

"No,  thanks.  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  this 
lady  before  I  go." 

The  two  agents  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  Then 
the  older  man,  obviously  fearing  violence,  tried  to 
wheedle  him,  "I'm  sure,  sir,  the  rest  had  better  be 
left  to  the  lawyers." 

"Oh  damn  you !  don't  worry  me,"  replied  Calde- 
cot. "Do  as  you're  told.  That's  what  you're  paid 
for.  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  knock  her  head  off, 
you're  wrong.  I  just  want  a  word  with  her.  Now 
get  out,  all  of  you." 

Britford  did  not  understand.  When  questioned 
he  pointed  vaguely  to  the  spare  room.  As  the  two 
men  led  him  in,  Mrs.  Caldecot  gave  a  confused  cry 
and  rushed  into  her  bedroom,  trying  to  close  the 
door.  Caldecot  interposed  his  foot,  and  there  waited 

for  some  minutes,  until  Britford,  hurriedly  clad, 

272 


MINIONS  OF  THE  MOON 

came  back  between  the  two  agents.  They  tried  to 
take  him  downstairs,  but  he  was  so  puzzled  that  he 
stopped  them.  "Look  here,  Caldecot  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"Shut  up,"  murmured  Caldecot,  moving  his  eye- 
brows in  a  way  which  conveyed  to  Britford  that 
this  was  part  of  the  plot.  In  an  altered  tone,  he 
added,  "Be  thankful  that  I  turn  you  out  instead 
of  breaking  every  bone  in  your  body." 

When  the  hall  door  had  closed,  Caldecot  went  into 
his  wife's  room  and  switched  on  the  lights.  She  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  still  desperately  clinging  to 
the  quilt.  Her  eyes  were  frightened,  but  steadily 
directed  upon  him.  She  surprised  him.  He  ex- 
pected bewilderment,  or  terror,  but  not  this  strange 
steadiness.  **Well,  Clarrie,"  he  said,  "it's  too  late 
to  discuss  things  thoroughly  to-night.  But  I've 
caught  you." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"You  will  by  and  bye." 

"I  suppose  you're  going  to  blackmail  me  again. 
I  don't  understand  all  this.  I  don't  understand  how 
Stephen  came  to  be  here,  or  what  it  all  means,  but 
I  know  what  it  looks  like,  and  I  don't  care,  and 
you  can  try  to  blackmail  me  if  you  like,  I'll  die 
game." 

"Oh,  oh,"  said  Caldecot.  "I  admire  your  spirit, 
old  girl.  But  it  really  is  rather  late.  Now  I'll  tell 
you  something  ...  or  rather,  no,  let's  put  it  off. 
Ill  come  and  see  you  to-morrow  morning  and  have  a 

chat,  this  morning,  I  mean.     So  long." 

273 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

He  turned  to  go,  and  this  terrified  Mrs.  Caldecot 
still  more. 

"Geoffrey,  I  beg  you,  please  don't  do  that.  What's 
the  matter?  What  do  you  want ?  Oh,  what  does  it 
all  mean?  What  do  you  want?" 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  Caldecot,  with  a  smile.  "See 
you  later,  and,  meanwhile,  chew  it  over." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  listened  to  his  footsteps  on  the 
stairs.  She  heard  the  hall  door  close.  The  events 
of  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  hurtled  in  her  mind. 
What  did  it  all  mean?  What  was  Britford  doing 
here?  But  after  a  moment  all  this  uncertainty  was 
obliterated  by  an  insane  terror  of  Caldecot,  of  his 
unknown  intentions.  She  did  not  yet  perceive  her 
situation,  but  she  already  perceived  peril.  It  was 
that  suggestion  of  danger  which  made  her  instinc- 
tively clench  her  fists  and  raise  her  chin.  Some 
devil's  trick,  yes.  There  mixed  with  her  terror  a 
little  thrill  of  delight  in  contest,  in  self-mastery,  in 
courage. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GENTLE  DEW 

A'  half -past  six  Mrs.  Caldecot  leaped  from  her 
bed.  She  could  no  longer  bear  inactivity.  Al- 
most unconsciously,  after  the  house  grew  still,  she 
had  crept  between  the  sheets,  still  holding  the  quilt, 
as  if  her  muscles  had  been  set  into  an  unalterable 
attitude.  Her  mind  was  a  chaos  flecked  with  inter- 
rogations. The  horror  of  the  whole  affair,  the  vio- 
lation of  her  privacy,  the  insults,  the  sense  of  shame 
which  she  could  trace  to  no  wrongdoing,  all  this 
filled  her  fumous  brain.  Yet,  over  her  sense  of  in- 
jury, there  prevailed  an  immense  perplexity  as  to 
what  was  conveyed  by  the  events  of  the  night.  Four 
men  burst  into  her  house  .  .  .  yes,  she  understood 
that.  Of  course,  Caldecot  let  them  in  with  his 
latchkey.  Yes,  but  why?  Why  should  he 'want  to 
catch  her  in  circumstances  of  apparent  unfaithful- 
ness? To  blackmail  her?  Yes,  of  course,  that  was 
it.  She'd  thought  of  that  when  she  was  talking  to 
him.  She  did  not  realize  that  her  mind  was  in  such 
a  state  of  turmoil  that  an  idea  which  had  occurred 
to  her  at  once  might  be  obscured  by  excitement,  and 
reappear  as  new.  Of  course. 

275 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

Then  again  she  remembered  Britford.  Britford 
in  his  pajamas!  With  a  little  cynical  smile  that 
revealed  her  immense  sanity,  Mrs.  Caldecot  thought : 
"In  these  cases  one  generally  says  to  oneself,  'Am 
I  dreaming?'  It's  the  commonplace  of  such  situa- 
tions. But  I  wonder  whether  I  am  dreaming?" 
Could  Britford  be  an  accomplice?  She  had  to  laugh 
at  the  idea.  Oh,  how  hot  she  was.  She  flung  away 
the  bedclothes  and  went  to  the  washstand  to  take 
a  deep  draught  from  the  water  jug.  This  was 
ridiculous,  really.  She  quite  saw  that  Caldecot 
might  have  introduced  some  of  his  low  companions 
to  compromise  her  and  thus  blackmail  her,  but  he 
couldn't  have  obtained  help  of  Stephen.  "But 
then,"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot,  aloud,  seizing  her 
temples,  "what  was  he  doing  here?  And  in  his 
pajamas  ?  I'm  crazy.  I  let  him  out  myself.  Really, 
I  must  be  crazy."  She  got  up  again,  drank  some 
more  water.  For  a  while  she  told  herself  that  she 
might  understand  if  she  got  a  little  sleep,  but,  of 
course,  she  lay  wide-eyed,  or  desperately  turning 
from  her  right  side  to  her  left,  bringing  up  various 
facets  of  the  scene,  considering  again  and  again  this 
insoluble  question.  She  even  wondered  whether 
Geoffrey  had  discovered  Britford's  double,  and 
had  used  him  for  an  obviously  evil  purpose.  It  was 
only  a  little  later  that  she  was  reduced  to  immense 
misery.  Whatever  this  might  mean,  however  it 
might  be  explained,  it  meant  .  .  .  who  could  say? 
Some  sort  of  exposure,  of  scandal.  Or  threats, 

276 


GENTLE  DEW 

blackmail,  anxiety,  some  more  horrible  days.  Why? 
Why? 

So,  at  half-past  six,  she  leaped  out  of  bed  in  a  sort 
of  despair;  putting  on  a  dressing  gown,  she  went 
down  to  the  silent  kitchen,  where  she  lit  the  gas 
stove.  It  did  her  good  to  do  something  simple,  to 
acknowledge  the  advances  of  the  cat,  which  seemed 
agreeably  surprised,  to  brew  herself  some  tea  in  the 
teapot,  which  the  cook  had  overnight  set  out  for 
herself  and  Maud.  The  tea  revived  her,  too.  She 
stayed  in  the  kitchen  quite  a  long  time,  refilling  the 
teapot  from  the  hissing  kettle.  She  stayed  there, 
not  feeling  the  cold,  mechanically  caressing  the  cat, 
which  inflated  its  black  and  tawny  sides  and  stead- 
fastly rubbed  its  hard,  snakelike  head  against  her 
hand.  She  was  not  thinking  of  anything  just  then. 
She  was  conscious  only  of  immense  exhaustion.  Just 
as  she  was  about  to  leave  the  kitchen,  the  cook  came 
down: 

"Good  morning,  Ma'am." 

"Oh,  good  morning.  I  came  down  to  make  my- 
self some  tea.  I  didn't  sleep  very  well." 

"No,  Ma'am.  Would  you  like  your  breakfast  a 
little  earlier,  Ma'am  ?" 

"No.    Yes.    Oh,  well,  just  as  you  like." 

It  was  only  when  Mrs.  Caldecot  regained  her 
bedroom  and  observed  herself  in  the  mirror  that  she 
was  shocked  by  her  swollen  red  eyes,  by  her  strained 
features ;  she  wondered  why  the  cook  had  shown  no 

surprise  at  finding  her  in  the  kitchen.     This  con- 

277 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

veyed  so  much  that  she  remained  before  the  mirror 
in  an  arrested  attitude.  Of  course,  she  hadn't 
thought  of  that.  Of  course,  they'd  heard.  Mrs. 
Caldecot  stood  twisting  her  hands  together  in 
agony,  as  she  made  a  picture  of  her  servants  on  the 
top  floor,  first  frightened  by  the  noise,  then  peering 
down  the  stairs,  and  hearing  .  .  .  Heavens !  hear- 
ing! Of  course,  they'd  think  it  was  true.  She 
looked  wildly  about  her.  For  a  moment  she  was 
without  courage  to  go  on.  If  she  had  had  a  weapon, 
she  might  have  killed  herself.  She  felt  rather  sick. 
The  future  was  now  filled  with  indescribable  horror. 
She  could  hush  her  husband  with  money,  but  those 
tongues  below?  She  had  just  heard  Maud  pass  her 
door.  No  doubt,  they  were  talking  now.  Tongues ! 
Mrs.  Caldecot  made  for  herself  a  fantastic  vision,  a 
sort  of  frieze  of  scarlet,  twisted  tongues,  quivering 
gently,  like  flames. 

She  must  have  stayed  in  this  condition  for  half 
an  hour,  for  she  still  stood  before  her  mirror,  when 
Maud  knocked  at  the  door  and  brought  in  her 
breakfast.  It  was  only  a  second  before  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot said,  "Come  in,"  but  in  that  second  some  sort 
of  transformation  came  over  her.  In  that  single 
second  she  had  been  able  to  think.  "Maud  knows ; 
Maud  knows  the  worst,  thinks  the  worst.  Well,  let 
her  think  the  worst.  Let  my  best  friend  betray  me, 
if  he  likes,  to  the  husband  who  blackmails  me.  Let 
them  all  lie,  and  scheme,  and  think  evil."  As  she 

said,  "Come  in,"  she  thought: 

278 


GENTLE  DEW 

"After  all,  I  am  I." 

Little  by  little  she  realized  the  day  before  her. 
Her  husband  was  coming.  She  knew  what  he  wanted 
.  .  .  and,  no  doubt,  he  would  explain  to  a  certain 
extent  the  events  of  this  incredible  night.  But 
Stephen !  It  was  Stephen  she  wanted  to  hear.  She 
wanted  to  be  assured  by  him  that  she  was  wrong, 
that  he  had  not  done  this.  The  telephone  was  by 
her  bedside.  Why  not  ring  him  up  ?  But  suppose  it 
was  not  Stephen?  Could  she  tell  him?  That,  at 
least,  was  how  she  put  the  problem  to  herself,  for 
Mrs.  Caldecot  was  only  trying  to  think  it  was  not 
Stephen ;  pride  bade  her  do  nothing,  but  only  to  be. 
She  forced  herself  to  eat  a  little,  for  she  knew  that 
before  her  lay  a  day  of  contest,  and  she  wanted  to 
be  strong.  Her  husband  was  coming,  and  no  doubt 
she  would  hear  from  Britf ord ;  she  wondered  which 
of  the  two  interviews  would  be  the  more  terrible. 

She  was  partly  disappointed  when,  just  before 
nine,  a  messenger  brought  her  an  envelope  addressed 
in  Stephen's  familiar  handwriting.  She  could  feel 
that  it  was  very  long,  and  she  stayed  some  time, 
afraid  to  open  it:  a  letter  from  Stephen!  This 
made  it  impossible  to  pretend  she  had  dreamed  this. 
Still,  she'd  better  know. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  read  the  letter  twice  very  carefully, 
her  features  showing  little  emotion.  The  last  five 
hours  had  provided  too  much  strain  to  enable  her 
readily  to  react  to  the  stimulus  of  revelation.  She 
read  it  twice  because  it  seemed  almost  impossible  to 
19  279 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

believe  this  story.  Only  little  by  little  did  she  under- 
stand that  Stephen  wanted  to  force  her  to  marry  him 
by  becoming  her  corespondent,  and  thus  making 
social  life  impossible  for  her  unless  she  married  him. 
It  seemed  so  wild,  so  absurd,  like  the  sort  of  thing 
one  read  in  sensational  novels.  Only  by  degrees  was 
she  able  to  tell  herself :  "I'm  wrong,  perhaps.  These 
thing  do  happen.  People  are  murdered.  People  are 
abducted.  It's  true."  It  was  a  terrible  letter,  so 
abject,  so  remorseful.  It  was  a  pathetic  letter,  too, 
for  it  protested  undying  love;  it  palliated  while  it 
implored.  She  was  almost  touched  as  she  realized 
the  extremity  to  which  a  practitioner  of  the  law 
must  have  been  brought  to  do  a  thing  like  this. 

Then  she  hardened.  So  that  was  what  she  was 
to  be,  a  toy  of  men,  to  be  gambled  for,  schemed  for, 
.to  be  forced  into  self-disposal  because  she  would  not 
be  wooed.  She  had  a  sense  of  intolerable  outrage. 
"Could  Stephen  be  crazy?"  she  asked  herself,  *Ho 
think  he  could  get  me  by  a  trick  like  that?"  She 
read  the  letter  again.  Only  now  did  the  story  seem 
true.  Well,  she  supposed  she  must  take  it  as  such, 
and  she  supposed,  too,  she  must  face  the  conse- 
quences. Obviously,  Geoffrey  would  threaten 
divorce.  His  case  was  clear,  and  even  if  she 
defended,  which  she  could  easily  do,  so  much  mud 
would  be  thrown  at  her  that  she  could  no  longer 
live  in  England,  while  a  little  more  mud  wouldn't 
hurt  Geoffrey.  No,  she  must  go  through  with  it, 
pay  for  silence.  And  for  Britford! 

280 


GENTLE  DEW 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  "Please  Ma'am," 
said  Maud,  "the  messenger  asks  if  there's  a  reply?" 

"Didn't  I  say  W?" 

**No,  Ma'am.  You  said,  wait  a  minute.  He's 
been  here  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Ma'am.  .  .  ." 

"Here's  the  reply,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  She 
found  an  envelope  and  a  sheet  of  paper,  upon  which 
she  wrote,  "Never  let  me  see  you  again." 

When  the  reply  had  gone,  she  first  felt  very  un- 
happy, for  she  had  lost  a  friend,  and  she  would  not 
even  have  the  eternal  treasure  of  his  ashes.  That 
was  over,  and  as  she  dressed  she  found  herself  tak- 
ing unusual  pains  over  the  ordering  of  her  hair. 
She  put  on  her  newest  coat  and  skirt.  The  chivalric 
sense  led  her  to  decorate  herself  for  the  inevitable 
struggle.  Since  she  was  living  in  a  mad  world, 
she'd  act  up  to  its  madness;  she'd  give  it  by  her 
beauty  and  her  charm,  in  conflict  with  all  this  vil- 
lainy, the  final  touch  of  extravagance  that  would 
make  it  almost  grotesque.  She  was  ready  just  before 
ten,  and  told  Maud  not  to  bother  about  turning 
out  her  bedroom  for  which  this  was  the  appointed 
day,  but  to  get  dressed  as  soon  as  possible,  as  she 
expected  a  visitor.  Then  she  sat  down  in  the  draw- 
ing-room where  already  burned  a  clear  fire.  She 
wanted  to  be  normal  in  the  midst  of  this  madness, 
so  she  forced  herself  to  read  the  Times.  She  read 
it  even  more  thoroughly  than  usual,  and  dallied 
awhile  over  the  personal  column,  where  one  item 

amused  her:   "Lady  in  Blue,  why  were  you  not  at 

281 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

X.  P.?  How  could  I  harm  you?  Lancelot."  "Poor 
little  lady  in  Blue,"  thought  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "I  do 
hope  Lancelot  won't  hurt  you.  I  suppose  he  will. 
They  all  do.  Even  the  Galahads."  When  she  had 
done  with  the  paper  she  went  to  the  piano  and 
played,  rather  badly,  the  most  florid  fragments  of 
Liszt  that  she  could  find.  She  banged  hard,  and 
this  did  her  good.  When  she  tired,  again  she  was  un- 
employed, and  she  had  to  realize  her  preoccupation. 
Why  did  Geoffrey  not  come?  It  was  nearly 
eleven.  He  said  he'd  come  in  the  morning.  Oh, 
why  didn't  he  come  and  make  an  end  of  this  ?  She 
wanted  an  end  of  such  agony  mixing  with  despair. 
Suppose  she  couldn't  give  him  as  much  as  he  wanted  ? 
And  suppose  he  thought  he  could  get  more  out  of 
her?  There  was  nobody  in  the  world  who'd  lend 
her  any  money.  Nobody  she  could  ask.  Stephen 
wouldn't ;  he  wanted  to  get  her  into  court,  to  drag 
her  somehow  into  his  arms.  There  was  Bob,  but 
the  idea  was  abominable.  To  tell  Bob  a  thing  like 
that !  To  soil  his  memory  of  her  with  such  a  story ! 
No,  that  would  be  laughable.  "I  must  face  it  my- 
self," thought  Mrs.  Caldecot,  and  as  this  came  fro 
her,  as  she  realized  that  she  stood  alone  in  a  world 
of  enemies,  she  was  invigorated.  Yes,  let  him  come, 
and  come  soon,  to  see  how  she  would  acquit  herself. 
She  would  not  give  in.  She'd  not  be  the  victim  in  a 
melodrama.  She  wouldn't  give  him  a  halfpenny. 
She'd  dare  him  to  do  his  worst,  even  if  she  had  to 

pass  the  remainder  of  her  life  in  an  Italian  village. 

282 


GENTLE  DEW 

Let  him  come  and  hear  that  he'd  get  nothing  from 
her.  She  wasn't  afraid.  But  as  the  clock  drew  near 
twelve,  as  the  dragging  morning  went  by,  she  passed 
through  alternations  of  feeling,  fear,  revolt,  misery, 
even  remorse,  during  which  she  wept  a  little,  though 
through  all  of  it  ran  her  lust  for  contest,  her  desire 
to  prove  herself.  She  had  to  lunch  at  last.  What- 
ever happened,  one  lunched.  And  after  lunch  again 
she  waited.  At  half-past  two  she  realized  in  panic 
that  Bob  and  his  young  wife  were  to  come  to  see 
her  at  three.  Owing  to  this  excitement  she'd  for- 
gotten. Oh,  this  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
But  why  didn't  Geoffrey  come?  For  a  moment  she 
wondered  whether  he  lacked  the  courage  to  proceed 
with  his  crime.  She  was  a  bold  and  direct  woman, 
and  so  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Caldecot  had  said 
he  would  come  in  the  morning,  intending  to  come  in 
the  afternoon,  so  that  a  dozen  hours  of  uncertainty 
and  fear  might  soften  her  to  his  purpose.  He  mustn't 
meet  Bob.  But  as  she  wondered  what  to  do,  she 
heard  a  ring.  She  rushed  to  the  landing  to  catch 
Maud  and  tell  her  to  tell  anybody  but  Bob  and 
Patricia  .  .  .  but  it  was  too  late.  Maud  must 
have  been  crossing  the  hall  as  the  bell  rang,  and 
already  Caldecot  was  laying  his  hat  and  stick 
upon  the  hall  table. 

"Oh,"  thought  Mrs.  Caldecot,  "I  must  be  quick." 
From  the  stairs  she  said,  "OUi  .  .  .  it's  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Geoffrey  as  he  came  up.  "How  are 
you?" 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

They  faced  each  other  for  a  moment  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. Mrs.  Caldecot  was  terrified  by  the  man's 
expression;  it  was  as  usual,  lowering  and  jaunty, 
and  yet  there  mixed  with  it  something  uncertain, 
something  beaten.  She  couldn't  understand  that, 
so  she  put  it  down  to  the  effects  of  drink.  Indeed, 
what  a  wreck  he  looked.  But  pity  did  not  last 
long  as  she  recalled  the  injury  he  had  done  her. 
So,  in  a  cold  voice,  she  said,  "What  do  you  want?" 

He  seemed  to  shift  a  little,  to  smile  in  half-apol- 
ogy. Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  know  it,  but  there 
struggled  in  her  husband  a  little  shame.  After  all, 
he'd  been  to  a  public  school  and  a  university ;  he  was 
a  drunkard,  a  profligate,  a  blackmailer;  he  might 
have  done  murder  or  forgery  .  .  .  But  he  was  a 
sportsman ;  he  paid  his  losses  when  he  bet ;  so  far 
he  had  never  cheated  at  cards.  Now,  he  did  not  know 
how  to  begin.  He'd  done  a  thing  that  wasn't  done, 
and  this  impeded  him.  So  he  tried  to  relieve  his  own 
embarrassment  by  a  jaunty  allusion  to  the  events  of 
the  night.  "Well,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "I  guess  you 
were  rather  surprised,  weren't  you?  I  suppose  you 
know  what  it  all  means  ?" 

"Yes.  I've  had  a  letter  from  Stephen.  So  tell 
me  what  you  want,  quick." 

"Now  don't  get  shirty.  Haven't  you  got  any 
sense  of  humor?  It  was  rather  a  joke,  really,  wasn't 
it?  Fancy  you  being  compromised,  Clarrie!  Mind 
you,  you've  got  the  looks  for  it.  I'm  quite  ready 
to  acknowledge  that,  but  the  idea  of  your  being 

284 


GENTLE  DEW 

compromised  with  old  Stephen!  Lord!  I  nearly 
laughed.  Old  Stephen,  in  pink  pajamas,  and  all  the 
strings  working  in  his  neck  like  those  of  an  old 
hen.  Oh,  dear." 

"Geoffrey,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "This  is  not  a 
j  oke.  And  you  know  it.  It  may  be  that  Stephen  is 
mad,  but  you  aren't.  You  want  money.  That's 
what  you've  come  for,  isn't  it?  You've  come  for 
money." 

Caldecot  looked  down  awkwardly.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "no.  Not  exactly.  I  haven't  exactly  come  for 
money.  I've  come  ...  to  stay." 

"How  much  do  you  want  to  make  an  end  of  this  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  as  if  she  had  not  heard,  not 
understood.  "You  know  how  much  I've  got.  Do 
you  want  to  see  my  passbook  again  ?  You  can  have 
whatever  there's  there.  You  know  that's  all." 

"My  dear  Clarrie,"  said  Geoffrey,  affecting  seri- 
ousness, "how  hot-tempered  you  are  getting.  Doesn't 
suit  you,  my  dear ;  fine,  big  women  like  you  ought 
to  cultivate  repose." 

"How  much,"  repeated  Mrs.  Caldecot,  hyster- 
ically, going  to  the  bureau.  "Say  what  you  want, 
and  be  quick.  In  a  few  minutes  Bob  and  his  wife 
are  coming.  They're  just  back  from  their  honey- 
moon in  Scotland.  So  say  what  you  want  and  go." 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  Caldecot,  sardonically.  "I'd 
quite  forgotten  that  affair.  Sorry.  You  have  my 
sympathy.  It  must  be  awfully  hard  on  you  to  see 

Rodbourne  again,  with  his  latest.     I  always  feel 

285 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

sorry  for  yesterday  when  it  runs  up  against  to-day. 
But,  there,  get  your  mind  off  it.  After  all,  I  sup- 
pose it  had  to  end.  And  look  at  the  compensations 
you've  got.  You've  lost  Bobbie,  but  you've  got  me." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  stood  against  the  bureau,  now  not 
even  searching  for  her  passbook.  She  felt  tortured, 
denied.  Yes,  Geoffrey  had  always  known  where  to 
hit  her  so  that  it  hurt  and  didn't  show.  She  did 
not  then  so  much  hate  as  loathe  him;  he  was  un- 
clean. Saying  these  things,  he  was  to  her  like  a 
priest  throwing  back  into  the  penitent's  face  the 
secrets  of  the  confessional.  "Won't  you  go?"  she 
whispered.  Then  she  had  an  instinct  to  wheedle  him. 
"Don't  be  any  more  cruel  to  me  than  you  need. 
Come  back  later.  Come  back  at  five.  Don't  be 
afraid,  I  can't  run  away." 

"Oh,"  said  Caldecot.  "I  see.  You  don't  want 
me  to  meet  them." 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  meet  them.  Can't 
you  feel  that  it  would  be  abominable?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  man.  "What's  the  harm 
in  it?  Your  friends  are  my  friends.  I  made  the 
girl's  acquaintance  last  time  I  called  on  you,  by  the 
way.  Nice  girl.  And  I'm  sure  I'd  get  on  awfully 
well  with  Bobbie.  After  all,  he  and  I  have  proved 
that  we  have  at  least  one  taste  in  common." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  went  suddenly  pale.  "I've  always 
known  you  were  a  cad,  Geoffrey,  but  in  the  old  days 
you  didn't  advertise  it.  Now,  quick,  let  me  get  my 

check  book ;  take  what  you  want  and  go." 

286 


GENTLE  DEW 

"No,  no,'*  said  Caldecot,  as  he  raised  a  protesting 
hand.  "I'm  not  going,  and  don't  let's  start  our  new 
life  with  a  quarrel.  I'm  not  going.  I'm  staying. 
For  good.  Come  on,  smile  a  bit;  your  long-lost 
husband  has  returned  to  you  to  give  you  the  position 
in  society  that  you  ought  to  have,  and  that  no 
lonely  woman  can  have." 

"Go  away." 

"Sorry,"  said  Caldecot,  lighting  a  cigarette,  "it 
can't  be  done.  I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 
Oh,  of  course,  I  know  that  if  I  wanted  to  be  nasty 
to  you  I  could  sweat  out  of  you  everything  you've 
got,  but  I  don't  feel  like  it.  Fact  is,  I  feel  inclined 
to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Let's  hitch  up  again, 
we  two,  and  see  if  we  can  make  a  job  of  it.  Oh,  I 
know  what  you're  going  to  say:  You  think  I'm 
going  to  hang  about  the  house,  drinking  whiskies 
and  sodas,  and  that  I'll  cost  you  a  lot  of  money. 
Not  at  all.  Clarrie,  I'm  getting  on.  Fifty-two. 
You're  getting  on,  too,  though  you  don't  look  it. 
So  you  see  it's  to  your  advantage  as  much  as  to 
mine."  He  sprawled  back  in  his  chair,  holding 
out  his  feet  toward  the  fire.  "Fact  is,  I've  got  a 
hankering  to  settle  down  again.  I've  been  racketty, 
yes,  I  know  that,  and  so  have  you,  old  dear,  by  the 
way,  but  that  doesn't  prevent  one  from  settling 
down."  His  tone  grew  confidential.  "And,  you 
know,  we'll  do  better  than  you  think.  You  know 
this  civil  aviation  stunt ;  well,  I'm  on  the  inside  of  a 
new  venture,  commercial  airplanes.  People  say  it'll 

287 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

never  pay,  but  people  used  to  think  that  about  rail- 
way and  the  telegraph  and  the  telephone.  My 
crowd  knows  better.  Clarrie,  I'm  going  to  strike  it 
rich,  and  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  out." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  was  staring  at  him  incredulously. 
She  was  reluctantly  realizing  that  he  spoke  seri- 
ously, that  after  a  life  of  dissipation  and  disgrace 
he  was  forcing  himself  upon  her,  as  might  a  hawk, 
with  blood-stained  bill,  seek  in  a  storm  the  quivering 
shelter  of  a  hen's  wing.  She  forgot  then  the  small, 
social  complications  promised  by  Rodbourne's  visit, 
She  forgot  everything  except  her  terror,  because  shft 
knew  what  lay  behind  the  demand ;  she  realized  that 
if  she  did  not  give  in  she  would  be  taken  into  the 
divorce  court.  And  then?  Britford  the  schemer? 
or  Caldecot  the  bully?  Or  laudanum?  She  was 
too  vital  to  say  laudanum."  One  or  the  other  it 
must  be,  and  in  that  moment  she  wanted  to  fight 
them  both. 

"Come  on,"  said  Caldecot,  "don't  look  so  sulky. 
After  all,  what  am  I  suggesting?  Instead  of  get- 
ting money  out  of  you  just  to  loaf  about,  I  tell  you 
I'm  going  in  for  honest  work.  What  more  do  you 
want?  That's  what  you  always  wanted  me  to  do. 
You've  got  it;  so  look  pleasant.  And,  mind  you, 
it  won't  be  all  work  and  no  play.  As  soon  as  I've 
made  good,  people  will  start  smiling  on  the  nice  side 
of  their  faces.  You've  seen  that  happen  before.  So 
don't  you  worry.  Within  six  months  we'll  be  giving 
nice  little  dinners,  and  having  no  end  of  a  good 

288 


GENTLE  DEW 

time.  Besides,  it  isn't  only  that:  Clarrie,  we  had 
one  great  misfortune  which  can  now  be  repaired. 
After  all,  you're  only  thirty-eight.  Wait  till  you 
tiptoe  upstairs  to  kiss  our  little  toddlers  good- 
night." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  found  herself  with  surprise  moving 
away  from  him  along  the  edge  of  the  bureau.  She 
was  wondering  whether  she  could  run  away  some- 
where, jump  out  of  the  window,  kill  herself,  anything. 
So  they  stayed  for  a  moment,  the  man  smiling  in 
that  queer  way,  half-savage,  half-uncertain,  the 
pallid  woman  inperceptibly  sliding  toward  the  wall. 
'At  last  Caldecot  determined  to  make  an  end  of  this 
scene.  "Now,  that'll  do,"  he  said,  with  sudden 
sharpness.  "I  mean  what  I  say.  You  know  Fm 
the  sort  of  man  who  does.  I'm  going  to  stay,  and 
you're  going  to  be  once  more  my  wife,  before  every- 
body, in  the  ordinary  way.  Understand?  And  if 
you  don't  come  through  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  whispered  Mrs.  Caldecot,  shrinking  from 
the  threat. 

"If  you  don't  come  through,  I'll  serve  writs  upon 
the  lot  of  you,  and  you're  going  through  the  divorce 
court,  my  beauty." 

"Well,  take  me  through,"  shouted  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
suddenly,  '*!  don't  care.  Stephen  thinks  I'll  marry 
him  after,  but  I  won't.  Do  your  worst,  both  of  you, 
I  don't  care.  Sue  for  divorce  if  you  like.  You've 
gone  too  far,  and  I  defy  you." 

**Do  you,  darling?"  said   Caldecot.     "Do  you 
289 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

really  think  I  want  you  to  marry  Britf ord  ?  Not  at 
all.  I  want  you  to  marry  me  over  again.  But  who 
was  talking  of  Britf  ord?"  In  a  velvety  tone  he 
added,  "I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  bring  in  Britf  ord; 
the  more  corespondents  the  merrier." 

''What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
feebly. 

"I  mean  that  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Britford  only. 
There's  Rodbourne.  You'd  have  two  corespond- 
ents, my  dear."  Mrs.  Caldecot  started  forward. 

"Oh,  Geoffrey,  you  wouldn't  do  that.  You 
wouldn't  need  to.  For  God's  sake,  don't  do  that. 
If  you  want  to  get  free  from  me,  you've  got  the 
case  against  Stephen.  You  don't  need  Bob." 

"The  more  corespondents  the  merrier." 

"Oh,  don't  you  see  that  if  you  do  that  .  .  .  Bob's 
only  just  married  Patricia.  She's  done  you  no 
harm,  and  you  don't  need  him.  Oh,  do  what  you 
like  to  me,  but  let  her  alone.  You'll  kill  the  girl." 

Caldecot  paused  to  light  another  cigarette  from 
his  stump.  "Can't  help  that.  You  know,  one  can't 
make  omelets  without  breaking  eggs." 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Caldecot  heard  the  bell 
ring.  They'd  come,  and  at  such  a  moment.  The 
combinations  of  fears  broke  down  her  resolution. 
She  tried  to  be  reasonable.  "Don't  be  silly,  Geof- 
frey. We  shouldn't  have  much  to  live  on." 

"Oh,"  said  the  man,  airily.  "You'll  have  enough 
for  me  to  live  on." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  gave  two  rapid  gulps.     Then,  in 

290 


GENTLE  DEW 

a  low  voice,  said:  "All  right.  I  give  in.  But 
please  go  away  just  for  an  hour.  Oh,  for  heaven's 
sake,  don't  sit  there  when  I've  given  in.  I  beg  you 
to  make  it  easy  for  me."  She  went  to  him  as  if  to 
seize  him  by  the  arm,  then  hesitated.  "I'll  do  any- 
thing you  like.  I'll  say  what  you  like.  Just  tell  me 
what  you  want,  and  I'll  do  anything  in  the  world ; 
only  don't  do  it  like  this.  Don't  force  yourself  upon 
me  so  suddenly,  before  the  world,  before  those  two. 
Oh,  Geoff,  do  be  sensible.  Let  me  tell  people  that 
I've  heard  from  you  from  abroad  and  that  you're 
coming  back.  I'm  going  crazy.  Let  me  prepare 
things.  Oh,  I  beg  you,  Geoffrey,  go  away.  Don't 
insist  on  meeting  those  two  now." 

Caldecot's  face  was  quite  determined.  "Don't  be 
a  fool.  I've  told  you  before ;  the  woman  knows  me." 

"Yes,  but  he  doesn't.  Geoffrey,  I  beg  you  grant 
me  this  first  favor  and  it'll  be  the  last." 

*'No,"  said  Caldecot.  "And  let's  be  clear  about 
one  thing :  I'm  going  to  begin  as  I  intend  to  finish. 
To  be  boss." 

"All  right,"  cried  Mrs.  Caldecot,  her  voice  rising. 
"If  you  won't  go,  then  you  shall  meet  them  alone." 
She  rushed  to  the  door,  slammed  it  behind  her;  he 
heard  her  run  up  the  stairs. 

Caldecot  did  not  get  out  of  his  chair  until  Maud 
admitted  Patricia.  Then  he  came  forward  with  a 
pleasant  smile.  Dash  it  all,  she  was  a  pretty  woman. 
She'd  improved  since  July.  She  was  a  little  shy 

of  him.    "Oh,  how  do  you  do?    I  didn't  know  .  .  ." 

291 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"You  didn't  know  I  was  back?"  I  had  to  go 
abroad  again  after  I  had  the  pleasure  of  making 
your  acquaintance.  But  this  time  I've  come  back 
for  a  long  spell." 

"Oh,  how  nice,"  said  Patricia,  as  she  sat  down. 
"I  suppose  your  wife's  very  pleased." 

**Oh,  very.  It's  been  rather  hard  on  her,  you 
know,  my  having  to  be  abroad  such  a  lot  of  late 
years.  But  aviation  business  takes  one  to  all  sorts 
of  strange  places." 

"Oh,  you  fly,"  said  Patricia,  woman  enough  to 
follow  the  man's  subject. 

"Yes,  a  little.  Only  for  pleasure,  though.  It's 
business,  Mrs.  Rodbourne.  But  by  the  way,  hasn't 
your  husband  come  with  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Patricia,  with  a  smile  that  made  her 
exquisite,  "but  he's  downstairs  talking  to  the  taxi 
driver." 

"Oh?  he's  having  a  little  disturbance?" 

"No,"  said  Patricia,  laughing,  "but  on  the  way 
up  we  bought  a  puppy.  He's  in  the  taxi  in  a  basket, 
and  he  squawks  all  the  time  unless  you  talk  to  him. 
So  Bob's  explaining  that  to  the  taxi  driver  and 
introducing  them." 

Caldecot  laughed.  "You  have  a  kind  heart,  Mrs. 
Rodbourne.  I  like  dogs  myself.  You  must  let  me 
have  a  look  at  this  one  by  and  bye." 

"I  love  dogs,"  said  Patricia.  "And  since  we're 
giving  up  the  flat  and  hope  we've  got  a  house,  I  feel 

I  must  have  a  dog.    He's  such  a  darling." 

292 


GENTLE  DEW 

For  a  minute  or  two,  they  talked  of  Scotland, 
where  Patricia  had  spent  her  honeymoon.  Just  as 
the  conversation  began  to  flag  a  little,  Rodbourne 
came  in.  He  must  almost  at  once  have  recognized 
Caldecot,  for. he  paused  at  the  door.  They  had 
never  met  before,  but  the  man  had  been  described 
to  him,  and  nobody  else  could  look  quite  like  that. 
It  was  Patricia  who  settled  the  difficulty. 

"Oh,  Bob,  I  don't  think  you've  met  Mr.  Caldecot. 
He's  just  come  back  from  abroad." 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  Rodbourne,  coming  for- 
ward. His  fair  face  was  handsome  enough  to  con- 
vey none  of  his  emotion.  They  shook  hands. 

"Mr.  Caldecot  tells  me  that  he's  come  back  for 
good,"  said  Patricia.  "Isn't  it  nice  for  Mrs. 
Caldecot?" 

"Very,"  said  Rodbourne. 

"Yes,"  said  Caldecot,  leaning  against  the  mantel- 
piece with  beautiful  negligence,  "at  last  I've  got 
good  prospects  enough  in  England,  and  though  see- 
ing the  world's  very  nice,  after  all,  there's  no  place 
like  home.  Don't  you  think  so?"  he  said,  addressing 
Rodbourne.  "But,  of  course,  you  would,"  he  added, 
archly,  "in  your  present  condition." 

"Oh,  don't  chaff  us,"  said  Patricia,  with  anima- 
tion. "After  all,  it  isn't  our  fault  that  we're  just 
married." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Caldecot,  "and  besides,  it'll 
soon  wear  off." 

For  a  few  minutes  the  conversation  went  brightly 

293 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

between  Caldecot  and  Patricia.  Rodbourne  said 
very  little.  He  was  civil,  not  finding  it  convenient 
to  be  anything  else,  but  all  the  time  he  watched 
Caldecot.  He  thought  how  horrible,  but  still  could 
understand  the  fascination  the  man  had  had ;  there 
was  still  something  dashing  about  him,  something 
elegant.  And  he  had  a  turn  of  phrase,  which,  with- 
out wit,  sounded  like  humor.  Now  Patricia  was 
talking  of  Mrs.  Caldecot. 

"I  do  hope  she's  coming  down,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  know  how  fond  of  her  we  are ;  aren't  we  Bob  ? 
You  don't  know  what  a  friend  she's  been  to  us,  Mr. 
Caldecot,  while  you've  been  away.  Bob  was  so 
awfully  lonely,  and  she's  been  the  best  of  friends  to 
him." 

"I'm  sure  she  has,"  said  Caldecot,  cordially. 
"Clarrie's  a  brick." 

"She  is,"  said  Patricia,  intensely.  "And  she 
helped  Bob  an  awful  lot  with  his  constituency.  I 
don't  know  what  he  would  have  done  without  her 
.  .  .  until  I  came.  But  where  is  she?  You  see, 
we  can't  wait  very  long  on  account  of  the  puppy.  . 
I'm  so  sorry ;  we  wanted  to  stay  a  long  time.  But 
I  had  to  have  the  little  dog  .  .  ." 

"I  can't  think  what  my  wife's  doing.  When  she 
heard  the  bell  she  ran  upstairs,  to  powder  her  nose, 
no  doubt.  Wonder  if  she  knows  you're  here."  He 
went  toward  the  bell.  "No.  If  you'll  excuse  me, 
I'll  just  go  and  dig  her  out  for  you." 

After  Caldecot  had  gone,  Rodbourne  stood  up, 

294 


GENTLE  DEW 

and  at  once  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room 
with  an  unhappy,  interested  air.  He  had  not  been 
in  this  room  for  seven  months.  It  had  changed  a 
lot,  but  a  number  of  familiar  things  were  there  to 
move  and  hurt  him.  An  old  cushion ;  his  ash  tray. 
He  had  a  feeling  of  guilt  as  he  picked  up  the  ash  tray 
and  looked  at  it.  If  Pat  knew !  He  said  nothing, 
and  still  went  on  moving  about  the  room,  looking 
vaguely  at  small  objects,  and  experiencing  a  sort  of 
offense  because  the  scene  had  been  redecorated.  He 
was  annoyed  with  Mrs.  Caldecot  because  he  did  not 
find  the  surroundings  as  he  imagined  them,  now 
that  he  chose  to  enter  them  again.  Meanwhile,  Pa- 
tricia was  following  him  with  her  eyes.  She  per- 
ceived in  him  something  which  in  a  woman  she  would 
have  called  disturbance,  but  she  knew  already  that 
in  a  man  it  was  merely  vacancy.  She  didn't  like 
this  being  aloof  from  her,  even  for  a  moment.  That 
humiliated  her.  So,  suddenly,  she  leaped  up  from 
her  chair,  and  throwing  both  arms  about  his  neck, 
dragged  his  head  down  to  press  passionate  but  child- 
ishly hard  kisses  upon  his  mouth.  He  submitted. 
But  after  a  moment,  as  if  he  sought  asylum,  he 
clasped  both  arms  about  her  and  lifted  her  off 
her  feet,  kissing  her  so  that  almost  at  once  she  lay 
in  his  arms,  limp  and  abandoned.  He  put  her  down 
suddenly.  He  had  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Caldecot  paused  for  a  moment  while  her 
husband  held  the  door  open  for  her.     They  stood 
so  framed,  these  four,  still  as  in  a  picture,  Caldecot 
20  295 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

looking  victorious  and  faintly  amused,  Patricia  still 
flushed  with  the  kiss,  Rodbourne,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  pale  woman  with  the  averted  look.  The  moment 
was  tense,  especially  for  Rodbourne,  whose  mind  was 
struggling  with  the  incredible.  Patricia  had  not 
told  him  that  Caldecot  had  come  back,  for  she  could 
not  mention  to  him  her  nocturnal  visit  in  July.  So 
the  reunion  came  to  him  with  its  full  effect  of  shock. 
As  he  looked  at  her  he  thought:  "You  soon  con- 
soled yourself.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  do  without  a 
man." 

It  was  Caldecot  who  intervened  to  break  the  awk- 
wardness by  saying:  "I've  made  your  apologies, 
Clarrie.  I  told  them  you  were  putting  on  your  best 
bib  and  tucker."  Patricia  kissed  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
who  had  come  forward,  giving  her  a  shy  hand,  fond 
look  and  thinking  what  a  dear  she  was. 

"How  do  you  do,  Bob,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  in  a 
dead,  still  voice,  the  novelty  of  which  frightened 
him. 

"I'm  all  right." 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time?"  she  asked,  throwing 
Patricia  a  pretty  artificial  smile. 

"Oh,  it  was  lovely,"  said  Patricia,  and,  enthusi- 
asm invading  her  voice,  recounted  their  journey. 
It  had  been  a  long  and  exciting  one.  "And  we  had 
a  regular  adventure,  you  know.  We  went  to  Inver- 
ness by  accident." 

"Took  the  wrong  train,  eh?"  said  Caldecot.  "Oh, 

you  love  birds." 

296 


GENTLE  DEW 

"Not  at  all.  We  were  perfectly  self-possessed. 
Moderns  don't  take  the  wrong  train  on  the  honey- 
moon. But  when  we  left  the  Isle  of  Skye,  the 
weather  was  so  frightful  that  they  didn't  think  they 
could  get  into  Mallaig.  So  we  dumped  ourselves  at 
Kyle  of  Lockalsh,  and  you  should  have  seen  Bob 
carrying  the  luggage.  Didn't  you,  Bob?  And  do 
you  remember  the  sailor  who  warned  you  that  my 
trunk  wasn't  a  lecht  wecht'?" 

"Oh,  rot,"  said  Bob.    "You  made  that  up." 

"Anyhow,  we  had  to  go  to  Inverness  as  the  train 
didn't  go  anywhere  else,  and  we  came  down  the 
Canal,  and  we  tried  to  get  some  Scotch  pancakes, 
but  the  only  thing  they  knew  how  to  make  was 
American  waffles.  And  we  saw  a  little  post  office  at 
Gairlock,  made  up  of  two  little  towers  stuck  to- 
gether, and  we're  going  to  hire  it  next  summer." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  asked  a  question.  Patricia  an- 
swered it.  Bob  was  no  longer  maintaining  upon 
her  that  surprised,  sorrowful  gaze,  but  he  did  not 
talk  to  her.  For  some  time  the  party  resolved  itself 
into  conversations  between  the  two  women,  who 
spoke  of  frocks,  and  the  two  men.  That  is,  Calde- 
cot was  discussing  the  share  market;  it  was  only 
by  degrees  that  he  managed  to  make  Rodbourne 
talk  a  little  of  civil  aviation,  and  the  possibilities  of 
Government  aid.  At  length  Mrs.  Caldecot  felt  the 
strain ;  she  saw  that  she  couldn't  go  on  like  this  with 
Bob.  He'd  been  too  near  to  her,  so  she  addressed 

him  straight.    "Where  are  you  going  to  live,  Bob?" 

297 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

"Oh,  I  ..."  he  was  embarrassed.  "Oh,  we've 
seen  lots  of  houses." 

"Can't  you  find  what  you  want?" 

"Not  exactly.  There's  a  little  place  in  Curzon 
Street  that  Pat  is  crazy  on,  but  it's  got  practically 
to  be  rebuilt;  it's  so  old." 

"Still,  it's  very  handy,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot. 

"Oh,  yes,  in  that  sense.  Anyhow,  that's  the  place 
Pat  means  when  she  says  she  thinks  we've  got  a 
house,"  said  Rodbourne.  Then  he  was  surprised  to 
find  that  he  was  talking  more  naturally.  After  all, 
that  man  was  her  husband.  If  he  eame  back,  what 
could  she  do  ?  An  evil-looking  fellow.  Poor  Claire ! 
His  voice  changed,  and  it  was  almost  as  if  a  new,  a 
friendly  intimacy  could  rise  as  a  cool  flower  from 
the  ash  heap  left  behind  by  the  old  flames. 

The  call  was  short,  however,  for  after  half  an 
hour,  Patricia  suddenly  cried  out,  "Bob,  we've  for- 
gotten the  puppy." 

"By  Jove,  yes!"  replied  Rodbourne,  with  comic 
anxiety. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Caldecot,"  said  Patricia,  "I  hope 
you  don't  think  us  very  rude,  but  we  didn't  intend 
to  buy  it,  and  I'm  so  afraid  the  taxi  driver's  got 
tired  of  talking  to  it." 

"Possibly,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  "The  puppy's 
conversation  may  be  monotonous,  you  see." 

"Now,"  said  Patricia,  "what  we  really  thought 
of  doing  in  the  cab  was  this :  as  I  knew  we  couldn't 
stay  as  long  as  we  wanted,  we  wanted  you  to  dine 

298 


GENTLE  DEW 

with  us  to-night  at  Claridge's?  And,  of  course,  we 
want  your  husband  to  come,  too,  since  he's  back. 
Do  come.  I  do  so  want  to  have  a  nice  long  talk 
with  you." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  «I  don't  know." 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,  Mrs.  Rodbourne,"  said 
Caldecot.  "We  shall  be  charmed.  We  aren't  doing 
anything  to-night,  Clarrie,  are  we?  No?  Well,  we 
shall  be  very  pleased." 

"What  time  do  you  think,  Bob?"  said  Patricia. 
"Eight  o'clock?" 

"Yes,  that'll  do." 

As  they  turned  to  go,  Patricia  drew  from  her 
bag  a  square  of  cardboard,  which  she  gave  to 
Mrs.  Caldecot.  "That's  Bob  and  I,"  she  said, 
rather  shyly.  "It  was  taken  in  Scotland.  It  doesn't 
flatter  me,  but  it's  awfully  good  of  Bob,  so  that's 
all  right." 

Caldecot  and  his  wife  stood  aimlessly  in  the  draw- 
ing-room after  he  had  seen  the  couple  out.  Then, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  head  high,  he  began  to  pace 
the  room,  whistling  the  wedding  march.  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot had  placed  the  photograph  upon  the  mantel- 
piece, and  stood  looking  at  it,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
sound.  Her  abstracted  attitude  worried  him,  for 
still  he  was  not  sure  of  himself.  So  he  stopped  and 
remarked,  abruptly: 

"Well,  that's  that.  Bless  you  my  children,  eh, 
Clarrie?"  There  was  no  reply.  "Now,  don't  be 
sulky,  old  girl.  Remember  that  those  two  aren't 

299 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

the  only  ones  who  are  in  luck  to-day.  Daphnis  and 
Chloe  are  all  right,  but  so  are  Darby  and  Joan. 
Come  on,  give  us  a  smile.  Don't  you  know  that  you 
and  I  are  going  to  be  as  happy  as  two  pussies  in  one 
basket?" 

Then  she  turned  and  stared  at  him.  Now  she 
knew  that  this  was  true,  that  he  had  come  back  to 
live  with  her,  to  live  on  her  money,  that  nothing 
would  release  her  except  his  death.  He  was  her 
master  because  she  was  helpless  while  he  held  in  his 
hands,  not  only  the  terrible  faculties  of  a  social 
exposure,  the  power  to  ruin  her  by  pillorying  Brit- 
ford,  but  also  the  power  to  break  with  a  word  those 
two  happy  little  people.  Beyond  that  he  had  other 
strengths.  She  was  his  wife.  He  had  his  rights. 
Her  husband  still !  She  couldn't  get  past  that.  The 
only  thing  to  do  was  to  accept  it.  But  how  accept 
it?  He  helped  her. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "it's  no  use  your  taking 
up  a  heroic  attitude.  Everything's  over,  bar  the 
shouting,  and  so  you'd  better  make  the  best  of  it. 
Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes." 

"You  mean  you're  going  to  make  the  best  of  it?" 

"What  else  can  I  do?" 

"Well,  you  can  do  it  better  than  that,"  said  the 
man,  roughly.  "If  you  think  I'm  going  to  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  with  a  stuffed  mummy,  you're 
wrong.  You're  going  to  be  just  the  ordinary, 

decent  civil  sort  of  wife  that  it's  a  woman's  business 

800 


GENTLE  DEW 

to  be.  I'm  not  going  to  have  pale  faces  and  tragic 
looks.  You're  going  to  be  civil." 

"Of  course,  I'll  be  civil,  Geoffrey,"  said  Mrs. 
Caldecot  in  a  tired  voice.  "You've  got  the  better 
of  me,  but  you  know  quite  well  I'll  play  the  game. 
Oh,  I'll  be  civil." 

He  smiled.  "That's  better.  But  wives  are  sup- 
posed to  be  more  than  civil.  They're  supposed  to 
be  loving.  Now  give  a  rest  to  those  great  big 
round  eyes.  You're  a  damn  fine  girl ;  come  here  and 
give  me  a  kiss." 

A  blush  rose  in  Mrs.  Caldecot's  cheeks.  She  was 
ashamed.  Anger,  though  was  stronger  than  shame. 
"I  won't,"  she  said. 

*T)on't  be  silly,"  said  Caldecot.  "Haven't  you 
told  me  that  you're  going  to  behave  like  a  normal 
wife?  Don't  try  to  play  with  me.  You  ought  to 
know  by  now  who  you're  dealing  with.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour  ago  I  broke  down  your  bedroom  door. 
If  I've  got  to,  I'll  break  you." 

"Break  me  if  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  step- 
ping back  with  clenched  fists,  "but  if  you  touch  me 
111  .  .  .  I'll  hit  you." 

"Oh,  I  won't  touch  you,  my  dear.  I'm  not  that 
sort  of  man.  I  never  kissed  a  woman  by  force,  and 
you're  going  to  kiss  me  without.  Come  along, 
there's  a  limit  to  my  patience.  If  you  don't  give  in, 
there's  just  time  for  a  couple  of  writs.  Come  on, 
I  know  the  law.  I've  only  been  here  in  the  after- 
noon, and  even  then  in  the  presence  of  witnesses. 
301 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

You  can't  claim  that  Pve  resumed  cohabitation. 
So  I  can  still  send  those  writs  unless  you  come 
through.  So  come  through  here  now."  Mrs.  Calde- 
cot  looked  away,  passed  a  distracted  hand  through 
her  hair,  then  murmured:  "I  suppose  I'm  power- 
less. Since  you've  come  back,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  All 
right,  kiss  me  if  you  like." 

Caldecot  leaned  a  little  forward,  fixing  upon  her 
imperative  eyes.  **I  didn't  say  I  wanted  to  kiss 
you,"  he  replied  in  an  even  voice.  "I  said  I  wanted 
you  to  kiss  me.  Do  you  understand?  I  know  that 
it's  a  humiliating  thing  for  a  man  of  my  reputation 
to  imprint  a  kiss  upon  the  lips  of  his  lawful 
wife.  But  still  I  like  to  do  the  proper  thing. 
Come  here." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  looked  about  the  room  as  if  she 
were  saying  good-bye  to  it,  as  if  in  a  second  every- 
thing would  be  different.  She  wanted  to  remember 
it.  Then  she  looked  at  the  man;  she  felt  now 
neither  hate  nor  disgust,  only  weariness.  Very 
slowly  she  came  toward  the  figure  which  did  not 
move.  After  a  tiny  hesitation  she  bent  forward  and 
touched  his  cheek  with  her  lips.  As  she  stepped 
back  he  held  up  a  restraining  hand.  "Not  like  that. 
Kiss  me  properly.  Put  your  arms  round  my  neck." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  did  not  hesitate  now;  she  was 
learning.  Without  revolt  she  placed  both  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips.  Then  she 
drew  back  and  stood  before  him,  hands  clasped 

above  her  knees,  head  down,  as  if  she  waited  for 
302 


GENTLE  DEW 

further  demands,  offering  obedience  after  abdica- 
tion. 

"That's  that,"  said  Caldecot,  but  glanced  at  her. 
Yes,  he'd  got  her,  and  it  was  going  to  be  all  right. 
She'd  be  decent,  and  she  had  some  money.  But  all 
the  same  he  could  still  feel  upon  his  lips  that  light 
kiss  from  a  mouth  which,  as  it  surrendered,  had 
retracted.  She  hadn't  wanted  to  kiss  him.  He  knew 
that.  He'd  made  her.  He  didn't  mind  having  had 
to  make  her,  for  he'd  forced  many  another  woman. 
But  when  they  did  it,  it  hadn't  been  like  that;  it 
hadn't  been  so  desperate.  She'd  kissed  him,  hating 
it,  and  she  hadn't  learned  to  like  the  caress.  Sud- 
denly he  thought  of  Vee.  She,  too,  she'd  left  him; 
his  contact  had  no  charm  for  her.  And  the  girl 
he'd  followed  in  the  street,  who  wouldn't  speak  to 
him.  .  .  .  The  world  of  women  was  drawing  away 
from  the  man  who  had  seen  the  world  as  peopled 
with  them.  No  woman  wanted  him,  not  even  his 
wife.  He  had  known  attack,  rebuff,  insult,  poverty, 
loneliness,  illness ;  he'd  been  a  danger,  a  man  that 
other  men  wouldn't  introduce  to  their  wives,  the 
companion  of  sots  and  tipsters ;  the  go-between  of 
financial  touts.  He'd  gone  into  the  depths,  he 
thought,  but  to  have  women  turning  against  him 
too.  "Claire !"  he  cried,  with  an  accent  in  his  voice 
that  made  her  stare  at  him,  "don't !  don't !" 

"Don't  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Caldecot,  dully. 

"Don't  stand  like  that;  I  can't  bear  it."     He 

paused.     A  sort  of  pride  was  struggling  with  his 
303 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

misery.  *1)on't  look  at  me  like  that,  as  if  I  were  an 
outcast.  Yes,  I  am  an  outcast,  I  know.  Damn 
it  all !  I  haven't  been  worse  than  most  men  of  my 
sort.  Life's  a  rough  and  tumble.  I  got  thrown 
into  the  mud.  Some  one's  got  to  be." 

She  was  still  staring  at  him.  Something  in  his 
voice  moved  her,  for  it  was  agonized,  and  she  noticed 
how  gray  his  hair  had  turned. 

**Don't  treat  me  like  that,"  pleaded  Caldecot. 
"You  don't  know  what  I've  gone  through.  Oh,  it 
started  all  right.  It  started  cheery  enough,  but 
things  have  gone  badly,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  was  half  contemptuous.  "Are  you 
begging  my  pardon,  Geoffrey?  It's  too  late." 

"Is  it?  Am  I  too  old?  Vee  thought  so.  Oh,  I 
didn't  tell  you  about  her.  Or  did  I  ?  I  don't  remem- 
ber. Just  one  of  the  girls.  A  few  days  ago  she 
gave  me  the  push." 

"Really  Geoffrey,!  don't  think  I  need  to  know ..." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do.  You'd  better  know  everything. 
I  don't  say  I  was  crazy  about  her,  but,  there  you 
are.  She  was  young  and  pretty,  and  it  had  been 
going  on  for  a  while,  and  she  gave  me  the  chuck. 
Said  I  was  too  old.  Too  old,  my  God !  I  suppose 
one's  got  to  come  to  it." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  surveyed  him  neutrally.  She  was 
not  disgusted,  for  the  conversation  did  not  surprise 
her,  but  now  she  saw  not  only  that  he  was  gray  but 
that  his  skin  was  dry  and  wrinkled.  Fifty-two,  and 
ten  years  more  for  excesses. 

304 


GENTLE  DEW 

**I  can*t  help  it,"  she  said,  without  unkindness, 
just  stating  a  fact. 

"Oh  yes,  you  can.  His  voice  grew  loud.  **Don't 
you  understand  that  I'm  *down  and  out'?  Women 
won't  look  at  me  any  more,  and  I've  lived  for  'em. 
I'm  dead  while  I'm  alive,  and  there's  nothing  left 
except  to  drink  and  forget  ...  if  I  can.  I  sup- 
pose you  think  it's  funny,  me  talking  to  you  about 
,Vee,  but  there,  I  guess  you  know  I'm  not  a  saint. 
I  took  up  with  her  because  one's  got  to  have  a 
woman.  Just  as  a  woman  feels  she's  got  to  have 
flowers  in  the  drawing-room.  Oh,  I'm  not  being 
soft  about  it.  I  didn't  take  up  with  Vee  because 
she  was  a  bunch  of  violets,  but  she  was  a  kid,  and 
I  liked  to  have  other  men  stare  at  her  when  I  took 
her  out.  t  She  was  part  of  the  racket ;  one's  got  to 
have  it." 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  all  this,  Geoffrey?"  asked 
Mrs.  Caldecot,  angered  now  by  this  exposure  of 
sentimental  lust. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  replied  Caldecot  in 
a  low  voice.  "I  didn't  understand  it  myself  till  the 
other  day.  It  wasn't  only  that  she  was  a  nice  little 
bit  of  fluff.  It  was  that  she  was  a  kid,  and  made 
me  feel  one,  too,  made  me  feel  I  was  what  I'd  always 
been,  a  success,  all  that.  You  women  don't  under- 
stand why  men  are  always  getting  entangled  with 
women;  we  don't  always  want  to,  but  we  slide  into 
it  because  that's  our  way  of  making  sure  there's  life 

in  the  old  dog  yet.    Only,  there's  an  end  to  it.    I'm 
305 


HER  UNWELCOME  HUSBAND 

an  old  dog.  She  told  me  so.  She's  the  first  woman 
who's  ever  given  me  the  chuck.  It  was  like  things 
coming  to  an  end.  And  .  .  .  the  same  day  .... 
well,  I  needn't  tell  you  that.'* 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot,  disgustedly, 
"that  on  the  very  day  this  woman  left  you  you 
tried  to?  .  .  ." 

"Good  God!  Don't  you  understand?  It  was  on 
the  same  day  I  tried  to  get  hold  of  another  woman 
because  I  couldn't  stick  it,  because  I'd  got  the  sack, 
and  I  had  to  do  something.  I'm  old,  I'm  sick,  rotten, 
done.  If  I  didn't  do  something,  if  I  didn't  try  to 
score  with  another  girl,  I  might  as  well  put  a  bullet 
through  my  brain.  Don't  you  see?  One  has  a  sort 
of  pride." 

"And  you  thought  I'd  do,  failing  better." 

"No.  Yes.  I  don't  mean  that,"  replied  the  man, 
bewildered  by  the  unusual  complexity  of  his  emo- 
tions. "Only  when  I  got  in  here  the  other  night, 
and  everything  looked  all  right,  so  much  the  right 
thing,  the  way  a  man  ought  to  live,  well,  you  know 
what  I  mean,  it  gave  me  a  sort  of  shock.  I  don't 
mean  money,  but  the  idea  that  in  a  house  like  this 
I'd  meet  decent  people,  people  who  hadn't  got  any- 
thing against  them.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  not  pretending  to 
be  ashamed  of  myself,  though  perhaps  I  did  take  the 
wrong  turning,  but  it  made  me  sick  to  think  of  the 
mess  I'd  got  into;  I  wished  I'd  run  straight;  I 
might  have  done  things.  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Clarrie, 

I  might." 

806 


GENTLE  DEW 

"Fm  not  laughing  at  you,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot, 
quietly,  seeing  in  her  memory  the  dashing  young 
man  she  had  loved. 

"You  well  might.  But  I  might  have  done  some- 
thing. Gone  into  politics  or  made  money  for  you 
to  blow.  Instead  of  messing  and  messing  and  becom- 
ing an  outsider.  Now  I  want  to  get  back.  It'll  be 
hard,  I  know.  People  aren't  going  to  swallow  me 
so  easily,  but  if  you  see,  I'm  at  the  end  of  my  tether. 
It's  all  over  with  me  unless  you  help." 

"Ill  try,"  said  Mrs.  Caldecot.  She  felt  that  she 
must  try.  Suddenly  Caldecot  flung  himself  upon 
his  knees  and  seized  her  hand. 

"I  know  I've  been  rotten  to  you,"  he  said.  "I 
was  rotten  to  you  years  ago.  I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  me.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  put  it  on.  I'm 
not  trying  to  tell  you  I  want  to  live  a  virtuous  life. 
I'll  do  my  best,  but  really  it's  not  that."  He  hesi- 
tated. "I'm  done.  And  I  want  to  die  quietly." 

Mrs.  Caldecot  moved  her  hand  as  if  to  try  and 
release  it,  but  there  was  such  a  fever  in  his  eyes. 
She  understood  what  he  meant,  that  he'd  taken  all 
he  could  from  life,  and  now  it  was  drawing  away, 
that  the  world  of  sense,  which  had  been  so  vivid, 
was  now  fading  before  him  as  the  pattern  on  the 
wall  paper  before  eyes  about  to  close.  "Downed  and 
outed!"  Perhaps  they  were  both  "downed  and 
outed,"  one  by  love,  the  other  by  lust. 

Hoarsely  he  repeated:  "She  gave  me  the  chuck. 
Said  I  was  too  old.  Perhaps  I  am.  Perhaps  there's 

807 


nothing  left,  nothing  left  to  do  or  to  hope  for.  I 
was  to  you  last  night  and  this  afternoon,  that's  all, 
kidding  myself  that  I  was  no  end  of  a  dog  and  had 
the  whip  hand  of  you.  What's  the  good  of  the  whip 
hand  when  you've  no  longer  got  the  nerve  to  use  the 
whip?  I'm  done,  Clarrie.  There's  nothing  left.'* 

She  was  looking  down  upon  the  bowed  gray  head : 
Yes,  he'd  been  vile,  and  nothing  could  alter  him. 
There  was  nothing  to  hope  from  him.  But  the  gal- 
lantry of  her  spirit,  revolted  against  the  suggestion 
that  there  was  nothing  more,  that  this  was  the  end. 
Trembling,  and  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  in  a  slow, 
reluctant  movement,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  bent, 
gray  head. 

"Courage,"  she  whispered,  "my  poor  old  Geof- 
frey .  ,  ,  courage." 


THE  END 


NEW  FICTION  BY  POPULAR  AUTHORS 


FLOWING  GOLD  By  Rex  Beach 

A  dashing  story  of  adventure,  crime,  and  revenge 
in  the  Texas  oil  fields,  during  the  boom  after  the  war. 

IN  JEOPARDY  By  Van  Tassel  Sutphen 

,  A  mystery  story  that  baffles  the  reader  up  to  the 
very  end.  A  woman's  wit  finally  solves  the  problem 
of  the  Unknown  Terror. 


SOME  DISTINGUISHED  AMERICANS 

By  Harvey  O'Higgins 

Seven  imaginary  portraits.  Perhaps  you  will  be 
able  to  recognize  the  personality  hidden  behind 
the  cloak  of  fictional  detail. 


JOAN  OF  ARC  OF  THE  NORTH  WOODS 

By  Holman  Day 

The  exciting  story  of  a  mysterious  young  woman 
and  a  desperate  man,  who  with  an  armful  of  bombs, 
beat  a  gang  of  gunmen  in  a  logging  fight.  A  story  of 
love  and  intrigue  in  the  north  country. 

SOULS  FOR  SALE  By  Rupert  Hughes 

A  story  of  a  young  woman  who  tried  to  conceal  a 
terrible  mistake  by  losing  herself  among  the  mysteries 
of  studio  life  in  Hollywood.  An  intimate  picture  of 
the  movie  world. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Franklin  Square,  NEW  YORK 


A  Varied  Assortment  of  Harper  Fiction 


THE  MAN  WHO  KNEW  TOO  MUCH 

By  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton 

The  most  thrilling  account  of  crime  since  Sherlock 
Holmes  and  Craig  Kennedy — the  story  of  crimes 
that  are  never  made  public — the  story  of  a  curious 
hunter  of  criminals  who  never  brought  a  criminal 
to  justice. 

THE  DUST  FLOWER  By  Basil  King 

A  new  version  of  the  eternal  triangle,  occurring  before 
marriage  instead  of  after.  A  baffling  love-mystery 
story  in  which  the  outcome  is  uncertain  up  to  the 
last  moment. 

RACKHOUSE     By  George  Agnew  Chamberlain 

An  exciting  story  of  a  returned  army  officer  who 
was  out  of  a  job  and  turned  bootlegger.  He  organized 
the  business  on  an  enormous  scale  and  was  finally 
rescued  from  his  reckless  life  by  his  sweetheart. 

WANDERER  OF  THE  WASTELAND 

By  Zane  Grey 

A  story  of  adventure,  romance,  excitement,  and 
vengeance  in  the  great  American  Desert.  The  author 
has  outdone  all  his  previous  efforts  in  this  masterful 
tale. 

TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN        By  Sewell  Ford 

Trilby  May  crashes  into  the  theater,  and  Inez  at 
last  cashes  in  on  her  Swedish  brain.  Inez  and 
Trilby  get  into  all  manner  of  ridiculous  and  amusing 
situations.  A  book  of  humor  and  fun  character- 
istically American. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Franklin  Square,  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C79084)444 


S      R     L     F 
SEE  SPINE  FOR  BARCODE  NUMBER 


PR 

6013 

G2?h 


